/BERKELEY 

I    LIBRARY 

!      UNIVERSITY  OF 
V      CALIFORNIA 

^^^, ^-g. 


VARIATIONS 


BY  JAMES  HUNEKER 

MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN  MUSIC    (1898) 

CHOPIN:  THE  MAN  AND  HIS  MUSIC  uwo) 

MELOMANIACS   (1902) 
OVERTONES    (1904) 

ICONOCLASTS:  A  BOOK  OF  DRAMATISTS  u»o5) 

VISIONARIES  (1905) 

EGOISTS:  A  BOOK  OF  SUPERMEN  (1909) 

PROMENADES  OF  AN  IMPRESSIONIST  (1910) 

FRANZ  LISZT.     ILLUSTRATED  (1811) 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE  (1912) 

NEW  COSMOPOLIS  (1915) 

IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS  (1915) 

UNICORNS  (1917) 

BEDOUINS  (1920) 

STEEPLEJACK.     TWO  VOLUMES  (1»20,> 

VARIATIONS  (1921) 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


VARIATIONS 


BY 
JAMES    HUNEKER 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  November,  1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  1919,  BY  THE  NEW  YORK  TIMES  CO. 
COPYRIGHT,  1919,  1920,  BY  THE  PRESS  PUBLISHING  co. 


PRINTED  AT 

THE  SCRIBNER  PRESS 

NEW  YORK,  U.  S.  A. 


R( '     L4- 

H4V3 

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PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

MR.  HUNEKER'S  literary  career  was  at  its  flood 
when  ended  by  his  sudden  and  unlooked  for  death. 
He  was  perhaps  our  only,  certainly  our  chief,  lit 
erary  journalist,  and  his  instructive,  penetrating, 
and,  above  all,  entertaining  criticism  in  the  field 
of  what  he  liked  to  call  the  Seven  Arts  was  almost 
always  first  seen  in  the  periodical  press,  daily  or 
weekly.  Afterward  it  was  sifted  and  the  residue 
abridged  or  expanded,  burnished  or  simplified,  in 
its  assimilation  into  appropriate  permanent  style 
and  stuff.  Needless  to  say  it  lost  none  of  its  bril 
liance  in  the  process  which  was  always  minimized 
by  having  been  largely  forestalled,  as  it  were,  in 
the  original  composition.  The  result  was  not  so 
much  merely  eminent  as  literally  unique.  His 
books  have  not  only  no  rivals  but  no  competitors. 
Alone  among  American  belletristic  writers  he  fol 
lowed  in  the  French  journalistic-literary  tradition, 
illustrated  and  rendered  illustrious  by  the  practice 
of  a  long  and  shining  roll  of  litterateurs.  Such  a 
practice  tends  of  itself  to  popularize  its  product  by 
inevitably  keeping  the  larger  public  more  or  less  in 
mind  and  therefore  eschewing  professional  pedan 
tries.  The  element  of  personality  acquires  promi 
nence  as  in  conversation.  Style  itself  becomes 
conversational.  Huneker  is  as  familiar  in  address 
as  if  he  were  not  often  erudite  in  material.  He 
establishes  first  of  all,  however  imperceptibly,  his 
relations  with  his  reader.  Whatever  the  effect,  it 
is  devoid  of  dulness,  and  accordingly  the  interest 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

of  his  writing  is  incontestable  even  when  its  value 
is  indeterminate. 

Composed  of  essays  written  since  the  publication 
of  his  last  book  —  Bedouins  —  though  of  necessity 
lacking  the  advantage  of  his  personal  selection  and 
supervision,  Variations  is  a  worthy  companion  of  its 
shelf-full  of  predecessors  in  its  possession  of  these 
qualities.  Aptly  named,  it  presents  perhaps  better 
than  any  of  them  a  wide-reaching  diversity  of 
aesthetic  material  for  the  consideration,  the  illumina 
tion,  and  —  pre-eminently  —  the  entertainment  of 
the  cultivated.  Perhaps,  too,  it  shows  a  maturer 
treatment,  a  mellower  temper  without  a  whit  less 
energy,  and  a  greater  opulence  than  ever  of  the 
author's  stored  acquisitions  and  spontaneous,  even 
exhilarated,  exposition  of  them.  And  here  and 
there  amid  the  wealth  of  literary  and  aesthetic  mis 
cellany  which  he  displays  and  expounds  one  comes, 
with  greater  frequency  than  ever,  upon  memorable 
crystallizations  of  experience  in  the  contemplation 
of  these  matters.  Such  truths,  too,  he  exemplifies 
as  well  as  formulates.  No  one  ever,  for  instance, 
credited  more  completely  his  own  maxim:  "There 
is  no  disputing  tastes  —  with  the  tasteless,"  or 
conformed  more  cordially  to  his  own  injunction: 
"Write  only  for  the  young.  The  old  will  not  heed 
you,  being  weary  of  the  pother  of  life  and  art." 
There  was  nothing,  however,  of  which  he  was  less 
weary,  as  this  his  last  volume  copiously  attests, 
and  the  explanation,  of  course,  is  his  unimpaired 
youthfulness  of  mind  and  spirit. 


VI 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

VARIOUS i 

How  NOT  TO  BE  A  GENIUS n 

THE  RECANTATIONS  OF  GEORGE  MOORE      .     .  20 

CRUSHED  VIOLETS 30 

BAUDELAIRE'S  LETTERS    TO    His    MOTHER     .  37 

THE  Two  TEMPTATIONS 46 

THE  FLAUBERT  ANNIVERSARY 52 

ROOSEVELT  AND  BRANDES 57 

PENNELL  TALKS  ABOUT  ETCHING       ....  67 

IN  PRAISE  OF  PRINTS 77 

NEW  RUSSIA  FOR  OLD 84 

CEZANNE 91 

EILI  EILI  LOMO  ASOVTONI? 99 

SOCIALISM  AND  MEDIOCRITY in 

CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS? 121 

ART  AND  ALCOHOL 130 

THE  TRAGIC  CHOPIN 137 

PHASES  OF  THE  GREATER  CHOPIN      ....  147 
vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  TWILIGHT  OF  COSIMA  I 157 

IDLE  SPECULATIONS 166 

THE  MASTER  BUILDER 173 

VERDI'S  OTELLO 181 

FAUST  AND  MEPHISTO 189 

BOHEMIAN  Music 195 

THE  Music  OF  YESTERDAY? 203 

LISZT'S  ONLY  PIANO  SONATA 210 

DREAMING  OF  LISZT 218 

A  BRAHMA  OF  THE  KEYBOARD 225 

CONTEMPORARY  BRAN 233 

A  MOOD  REACTIONARY 241 

MUSICAL  "POTTERISM" 248 

MY  "CHILDE  ROLAND" 255 

"OSCAR"  AND  DVORAK 263 

ENRICO  CARUSO  . .     .  273 


vni 


VARIOUS 

COLERIDGE  quotes  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  as  de 
claring  that:  "The  greatest  man  is  he  who  forms 
the  taste  of  a  nation;  the  next  greatest  is  he  who 
corrupts  it."  It  is  an  elastic  epigram  and  not 
unlike  the  rule  which  is  poor  because  it  won't 
work  both  ways.  All  master  reformers,  here 
tics,  and  rebels  at  first  were  great  corrupters. 
"Corruption,"  so-called,  is  a  prime  factor  in 
their  propaganda.  Buddha,  Jesus,  and  Moses; 
Arms  and  Aristophanes,  Mohammed  and  Napo 
leon,  Paul  and  Augustine,  Luther  and  Calvin, 
Voltaire  and  Rousseau,  Darwin  and  Newman, 
Liszt  and  Wagner,  Kant  and  Schopenhauer  — 
here  are  a  few  names  of  men  who  undermined  the 
current  beliefs  and  practices  of  their  epoch, 
whether  for  good  or  for  evil.  Rousseau  has  been 
accused  by  Pierre  Lasserre  as  being  the  greatest 
corrupter  in  modern  history;  yet  his  name  will 
always  be  associated  with  the  Constitution  of 
the  United  States  of  America.  Tom  Paine  has 
been  called  a  "dirty  little  atheist,"  but  he  wrote 
The  Rights  of  Man.  In  prose  of  unequalled 
force  and  limpidity  Pascal  denounced  the  Jesuits 
as  corrupters  of  youth  —  poor,  persecuted  Jesu 
its,  who  were  the  "Yellow  Peril"  of  that  time. 
Nevertheless,  Dr.  Georg  Brandes,  an  "intellec 
tual"  and  a  philosophic  anarch,  wrote  to  Fried- 
rich  Nietzsche:  "I,  too,  love  Pascal.  But  even 
i 


VARIATIONS 

as  a  young  man  I  was  on  the  side  of  the  Jesuits 
against  Pascal.  Wise  men,  it  was  they  who 
were  right;  he  did  not  understand  them;  but 
they  understood  him  and  .  .  .  they  published 
his  Provincial  Letters  with  notes.  The  best  edi 
tion  is  that  of  the  Jesuits.77 

Were  not  Titian,  Rubens,  and  Rembrandt  the 
three  unspeakable  devils  of  painting  for  William 
Blake?  Loosely  speaking,  then,  it  doesn't  much 
matter  whether  we  consider  a  great  man  as 
either  a  regenerator  or  a  corrupter.  It  all  de 
pends  on  your  critical  angle  of  vision.  Taine 
called  Napoleon  a  bandit,  notwithstanding  the 
idolatries  of  his  contemporaries.  Nor  does  the 
case  of  Nietzsche  differ  much  from  that  of  his 
philosophic  forerunners.  He  scolded  Schopen 
hauer,  although  he  borrowed  his  dialectic  tools, 
as  he  later  mocked  at  the  sincerest  friendship  of 
his  solitary  life — his  love  for  Richard  Wagner. 
We  know  that  the  most  " objective57  —  comical 
old  categories,  "objective77  and  "subjective7' 
philosophies  are  tinged  by  the  temperaments  of 
their  makers;  perhaps  the  chief  characteristic  of 
philosophers  is  their  unphilosophic  contempt  for 
fellow- thinkers.  This  trait  Schopenhauer  dis 
played  when  he  abused  Hegel  &  Co.,  Berlin, 
Ltd.  Nietzsche  attacked  Wagner  after  writing 
that  lucid  and  comprehensive  study  of  him, 
Richard  Wagner  and  Baireuth.  Wagner  was  a 
bitter  polemist  and  didn't  spare  Meyerbeer  and 
other  operatic  trusts.  He  was  an  amateur  phi 
losopher,  his  rickety  system  adorned  with 


VARIOUS 

plumes  borrowed  from  Feuerbach,  Schelling, 
and  Schopenhauer.  But  Arthur  Schopenhauer 
was  endowed  with  a  more  powerful,  more  origi 
nal  intellect  than  either  Wagner  or  Nietzsche. 
He  "corrupted"  both,  though  it  may  be  ad 
mitted  that  their  intellectual  and  artistic  soil 
was  primed  for  just  such  corruption.  And  Scho 
penhauer,  gay  old  misogynist,  was  materialist 
enough  to  echo  an  epigram  attributed  to  Fonte- 
nelle:  "To  be  happy  a  man  must  have  a  good 
stomach  and  a  wicked  heart."  In  other  words,  if 
your  stomach  is  sound  your  soul  will  take  care  of 
itself.  All  Hobbes,  Destutt  de  Tracy,  Cabanis, 
Helvetius,  and  Condillac  are  in  that  phrase. 

But  it  is  not  my  intention  to  stray  among  the 
pleasant  groves  of  speculation,  taking  an  occa 
sional  potshot  at  the  strange  fauna  of  meta- 
physic  or  admiring  its  many-colored  flora. 
Some  one  wrote  asking  me  if  Manette  Salomon, 
by  de  Goncourt  —  the  brothers  Edmond  and 
Jules,  —  had  been  translated  into  English;  also 
if  it  were  the  only  fiction  about  art  and  artists. 
I  can't  say  yes  or  no  as  to  the  translation;  if  it 
is  not,  it  should  be;  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
Manette  is  the  best  novel  dealing  entirely  with 
paint  and  painters  that  I  know  of.  Fiction 
about  art  and  artists  is  rare;  that  is,  good  fic 
tion,  not  the  stuff  daily  ground  out  by  publish 
ing  mills  for  the  gallery  gods.  A  classic  ex 
ample  in  American  literature  is  The  Marble 
Faun,  by  Hawthorne.  Romola,  by  George 
Eliot,  is  atmospheric  with  Florentine  art  and 


VARIATIONS 

the  genius  of  place.  However,  it  is  to  the 
French  that  we  must  go  for  such  literature, 
Manette  being  a  notable  example.  It  depicts 
the  spiritual  and  physical  decadence  of  a  splen 
did  painting  talent,  Coriolis,  and  contains  vera 
cious  pictures  of  the  pre-impressionist  days  in 
Paris.  Balzac  in  the  Unknown  Masterpiece  has 
left  a  model.  His  Frenhofer  is  the  first  of  the 
impressionists  withal,  a  fumbler  of  genius.  In 
both  Daudet  and  de  Maupassant  there  are 
stories  clustered  about  the  artistic  guild. 
Strong  as  Death,  by  de  Maupassant,  is  long 
enough  to  be  called  a  novel  (roman),  though  it 
is  but  an  expanded  episode,  and  a  mighty  inter 
esting  one,  even  a  touching  one,  for  the  usually 
impassive  Guy.  Daudet  described  a  Paris  Salon 
on  varnishing  day  in  his  accustomed  facile,  feb 
rile  style;  but  it  stems  from  Goncourt  and  Zola. 
Zola's  His  Masterpiece  (L'CEuvre)  is  one  of  his 
best- written  books.  It  was  said  to  be  a  favorite 
of  his,  and  it  justifies  his  taste.  The  much- 
belauded  fifth  chapter  is  a  faithful  transcription 
of  the  first  Salon  of  Rejected  Painters  (Salon  des 
refuses)  at  Paris  in  1863.  Napoleon  III,  after 
social  and  political  pressure  had  been  brought 
to  bear  on  him,  had  consented  to  a  special  Salon 
within  the  official  Salon  at  the  Palais  de  ITndus- 
trie,  where  the  rejected  work  of  the  young  luna 
tics  who  wished  to  paint  purple  turkeys,  ver 
milion  water,  and  black  sunsets  would  be  har 
bored.  Ivory  hallucinations  and  girls  with  car- 
milion-colored  eyes  were  not  barred.  It  is  an 

4 


VARIOUS 

enormously  clever  book,  this  chiefly  deriving 
from  Manette  Salomon  and  Balzac's  Frenhofer. 
Claude  Lantier  is  said  to  be  the  portrait  of  Paul 
Cezanne,  a  schoolmate  and  friend  of  Zola  at  Aix- 
en-Provence.  When  I  made  the  trip  from  Mar 
seilles  to  Aix  Cezanne  still  lived,  but  I  had  been 
warned  not  to  mention  the  name  of  Zola,  who 
shows  Cezanne  in  this  novel  as  an  impotent 
groper  after  impossible  ideals.  The  irritable 
Paul  would  go  into  spasms  of  rage  when  Zola 
was  referred  to  in  his  presence.  Imbecile, 
traitor,  charlatan!  These  were  sample  expres 
sions.  A  reading  of  L'GEuvre  at  once  convinces 
you  that  the  artistic  procedures  of  Claude  Lan 
tier  and  Paul  Cezanne  are  diametrically  differ 
ent.  Claude  failed  and  hanged  himself.  There 
are  contemporary  critics  who  consider  Cezanne 
the  greatest  master  of  the  impressionist  group. 
But  the  struggle  for  artistic  veracity  on  the  part 
of  Zola's  sorry  hero  is  not  unlike  the  case  of 
Manet.  The  Breakfast  on  the  Grass,  described 
by  Zola,  was  actually  the  title  and  the  subject 
of  a  Manet  canvas  that  had  scandalized  Paris  at 
this  period.  The  fantastic  idea  of  nude  females 
at  an  al  fresco  banquet  upon  the  grass,  while 
the  other  figures  were  clothed  and  in  their 
right  mind  —  all  this  was  too  much  for  a  pur 
blind  public  and  hostile  critics;  although  there 
are  many  examples  in  Italian  renaissance  paint 
ing  of  the  same  style  of  composition.  The  pic 
ture  became  notorious.  Manet,  like  Richard 
Wagner,  knew  the  uses  of  advertising. 

5 


VARIATIONS 

Poe,  Hawthorne,  Oscar  Wilde,  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  inter  alia,  have  dealt  with  the  theme 
pictorial,  and  Paul  Bourget,  in  his  thrice- 
charming  story,  The  Lady  Who  Lost  Her 
Painter.  Henry  James  has  written  delightful 
tales,  such  as  The  Liar,  The  Real  Thing,  and 
The  Tragic  Muse  —  this  a  full-fledged  novel  in 
two  volumes  —  in  which  artists  appear  and 
live  their  lives.  But  it  is  the  particular  psycho 
logic  problem  involved,  rather  than  theorizing 
about  art,  that  steers  the  cunning  pen  of  James. 
We  all  recall  the  woman  in  The  Liar,  who  de 
stroyed  the  portrait  of  her  husband  because  it 
revealed  to  her,  at  last,  the  secret  of  his  moral 
infirmity.  In  this  story  John  Singer  Sargent  has 
been  accredited  as  the  psychologist  of  the  brush. 
There  is  a  nice,  fresh  young  fellow  in  The  Tragic 
Muse,  who,  weak-spined  as  he  is,  prefers,  at  the 
last,  his  palette  and  brush  to  the  charms  and 
wealth  of  Julia  D allow  and  her  ambitious  plans 
for  his  political  career.  In  The  Real  Thing  we 
recognize  —  Henry  James  would  call  it  the 
" emotion  of  recognition" — one  of  those  un 
erring  strokes  that  prove  the  writer  to  be  mas 
ter-psychologist  among  English  novelists.  Any 
discerning  painter  will  tell  you  that  the  value 
of  a  model  who  can  take  the  "pose"  far  out 
shines  crude  naturalism.  It  is  the  suggestive- 
ness  of  the  pose  with  its  pictorial  implications 
that  sets  moving  the  imagination  of  the  artist. 
Upon  this  thesis  the  novelist  has  built  a  semi- 
pathetic,  amusing,  and  striking  fable. 
6 


VARIOUS 

There  are  painters  and  sculptors  scattered 
throughout  English  fiction  —  shall  we  ever  for 
get  Thackeray  and  Clive  Newcome?  Ouida 
has  not  missed  weaving  Tyrian  purples  into  the 
gorgeous  patterns  of  her  romantic  painters. 
And  Disraeli.  And  George  Bernard  Shaw  — 
there  is  a  painting  creature  in  his  Love  Among 
the  Artists.  (I  contend  that  an  admirable  nov 
elist  was  killed  in  Mr.  Shaw  when  he  deserted 
fiction  for  the  playhouse.  He  won't  agree  with 
me,  but  I  should  willingly  part  with  all  his  pref 
aces  for  another  Byron  CashePs  Profession.) 
But  it  is  to  George  Moore  we  must  go  for  fiction 
of  this  sort.  He  has  devoted  more  of  his  pages 
to  paint  and  painters  than  other  latter-day  nov 
elists.  The  reason  is  that  George  Moore  went 
to  Paris,  there  to  study  art,  and  he  drifted  into 
the  Julian  atelier  just  as  would  any  likely  young 
chap  with  a  well-filled  purse  and  hazy  notions 
concerning  art.  Those  early  experiences  were 
not  wasted,  they  cropped  up  in  his  stories  and 
critical  studies,  He  became  the  critical  pioneer 
in  England  of  French  impressionist  art  painters, 
the  champion  of  Manet,  Monet,  Degas,  and  the 
rest.  He  even  declared,  in  an  article  of  rare 
acumen,  that  if  Jemmy  Whistler  had  been  a 
heavier  man,  with  more  beef  and  brawn  and 
beer,  as  was  Rubens,  for  example,  the  spider- 
waisted  American  painter  might  have  been  as 
great  an  artist  as  Velasquez.  To  the  weighing 
scales,  fellow-artists !  retorted  Whistler;  never 
theless,  the  bolt  of  Mr.  Moore  reached  the  mark. 


VARIATIONS 

Whistler's  remarks  about  the  Irish  critic,  espe 
cially  after  the  Eden  litigation,  were,  so  it  is 
reported,  not  "fit  to  print." 

In  Spring  Days,  the  first  volume  of  Mr. 
Moore's  trilogy  —  A  Modern  Lover  and  Mike 
Fletcher  are  the  other  two  —  we  are  shown  a 
young  painter  who  thinks  more  of  petticoats 
than  paint.  Mike  Fletcher,  the  most  virile 
and,  for  some  of  us,  the  quintessence  of  Moore, 
has  its  share  of  paint  talk.  In  A  Modern  Lover 
the  hero  is  an  artist  who  succeeds  in  the  fash 
ionable  world  by  painting  pretty,  artificial  por 
traits,  thereby  winning  wealth,  popular  ap 
plause,  and  official  approbation.  He  also  makes 
love  in  a  fascinating  fashion  —  the  secret  of  his 
mundane  success.  This  same  Lewis  Seymour 
lives  and  paints  modish  London  beauties  in 
rose  color.  He  may  be  found  in  Paris  and  New 
York.  He  is  a  type.  The  sitter  for  this  por 
trait  is  said  to  have  been  Sir  Frederick  Leighton, 
a  statement  I  accept  on  its  face  value,  and  one 
that  Mr.  Moore  would  probably  vehemently 
deny.  But  his  irony  must  have  entered  the 
souls  of  a  hundred  celebrated  humbugs;  that  is, 
if  they  had  souls  to  boast.  A  Modern  Lover, 
despite  the  rewriting  and  consequent  deface 
ment  of  the  original  design,  is  distinctly  a  paint 
er's  novel  and  the  best  of  its  kind,  were  it  not 
that  subsequently  the  novelist  wrote  a  master 
piece,  Mildred  Lawson,  to  be  found  in  the  vol 
ume  entitled  Celibates  —  a  Balzacian  title,  by 
the  way.  Masterly  in  analysis  and  description, 
8 


VARIOUS 

this  story  chiefly  deals  with  art.  Mildred,  a 
selfish  English  girl  without  heart,  soul,  or  tal 
ent,  studies  in  the  Julian  atelier  and  goes  to 
Fontainebleau  during  the  summer  vacation. 
Naturally,  no  one  has  ever  described  the  Forest 
better  than  Flaubert  in  Sentimental  Education; 
Flaubert,  who  wrote  better  than  any  one  else 
save  Balzac.  In  this  great  canvas  of  Parisian 
life  there  are  marvellous  evocations.  There  is  a 
semi-burlesque  painter,  Pellerin,  who  first  reads 
all  the  literature  of  aesthetics  before  he  draws  a 
line,  and  poses  his  sitters  a  la  Van  Dyck,  Rubens, 
Gainsborough,  or  Titian;  in  a  word,  the  man 
of  precedent.  De  Goncourt,  too,  has  excelled 
in  his  impressions  of  the  Forest  and  its  paint 
ers;  in  particular,  Francois  Millet. 

It  is  only  just  to  Mr.  Moore  to  say  that  you 
can't  find  Mildred  Lawson  in  Flaubert  or  de 
Goncourt;  no,  not  even  in  Balzac,  whose  work 
is  the  very  matrix  of  modern  fiction.  She  is 
her  own  cruel,  perverse,  Moorovian  self,  and 
she  lives  here  or  London  or  in  the  Philip 
pines.  Elsewhere  I  have  classed  her  as  one  of 
the  most  disagreeable  heroines  in  fiction,  an 
inky  sister  of  Hedda  Gabler  and  Undine  Spragg 
(in  Edith  Wharton's  Custom  of  the  Country). 

All  the  one-time  novel  theories  of  "plein  air" 
impressionism  are  discussed  in  Zola's  His  Mas 
terpiece,  yet  the  work  as  a  whole  lacks  the  fine- 
fibred  style  and  clairvoyance  of  Manette  Salo 
mon;  that  breviary  for  painters  which  in  1867 
anticipated  the  experimentings,  the  discoveries, 

9 


VARIATIONS 

and  the  practice  of  the  naturalistic  and  impres 
sionist  groups,  running  the  gamut  from  Manet, 
Monet,  to  Cezanne,  Maufra,  and  Paul  Gauguin. 
The  book  is  crowded  with  verbal  pictures  of  art 
students,  atelier  and  open-air  life;  painting  was 
still  one  of  the  romantic  arts  when  de  Goncourt 
wrote.  No  such  psychological  manual  of  the 
painter  has  appeared,  before  or  since,  Manette 
Salomon.  The  celibate  bias  of  the  brothers  is 
revealed  in  the  leading  motive  —  oh,  that  musty, 
fusty  melodramatic  idea  —  which  is  the  degra 
dation  of  a  man's  artistic  ideals  because  of  the 
woman  —  Manette,  his  model  —  he  marries. 
It  was  Goncourt  who  introduced  Japanese  art 
to  Europe;  the  brothers  were  friends  of  the  late 
M.  Bing,  a  pioneer  collector  in  Paris.  And 
they  foresaw  the  future  of  fiction  as  well  as 
painting. 


10 


HOW  NOT  TO  BE  A  GENIUS 

How  not  to  be  a  genius  nowadays  is  as  dif 
ficult  as  it  is  to  believe  in  prohibition.  Every 
other  man  and  woman  you  meet  on  the  side 
walks  of  life  is  a  genius;  at  least  they  admit  it, 
or  their  disciples  say  they  are.  People  with 
mere  talent  are  becoming  rare.  If  you  happen 
to  write  a  best  seller  you  are  acclaimed  a  genius. 
And  when  you  think  it  over,  a  man  who  can 
sell  a  million  copies  of  a  book  compounded  of 
sentimental  slush  and  slimy  piety  must  be  a 
genius.  What  else  is  he?  An  artistic  writer? 
No.  Respectable?  Yes.  In  Carlyle's  times  a 
person  was  considered  respectable  if  he  owned 
a  gig;  he  was  called  a  gigman.  To-day  it  is 
the  motor-car  that  is  the  symbol  of  financial 
well-being.  Carlyle  had  much  fun  with  his 
gigman.  What  would  he  write  about  those 
egregious  humans  who  starve  themselves  and 
their  families  in  order  to  sport  about  the  high 
ways  in  a  mortgaged  motor?  Popularity  may 
be  for  dolls,  declared  Emerson,  but  it's  a  mighty 
asset  when  all  the  world  is  a  doll.  Even  the 
old  Carlyle  definition  was  thrown  out  of  court 
by  Herbert  Spencer,  himself  a  prize  specimen 
of  one  who  possessed  an  infinite  capacity  for 
taking  pains  in  his  work.  Nevertheless,  indus 
try  is  not  necessarily  an  indication  of  genius, 
ii 


VARIATIONS 

although  elbow-grease  has  been  an  underrated 
factor  in  the  case.  The  truth  is  that  there  are 
no  royal  paths  to  Parnassus. 

In  1857  Dr.  Morel  published  his  Traite  des 
Degenerescences,  and  gave  modern  psychiatry 
its  initial  springboard.  Then  Guerensen  pro 
nounced  genius  a  disease  of  the  nerves,  and  the 
floodgates  of  madcap  theories  were  wide  opened. 
We  learned  much  from  Magnan,  Ribot,  the 
brothers  Janet,  Maudsley,  Esquinol,  and  Char- 
cot.  After  their  psychological  plumber  work 
genius  became  a  dangerous  profession.  You 
were  likely  to  be  either  a  madman  or  a  criminal, 
and  such  piffling  busybodies  as  Lombroso  and 
Nordau  tracked  you  to  your  lair,  measured 
your  ears,  the  cut  of  your  nose  and  a  glance 
of  the  eye,  Reginald !  (Surely  Beau  Brummel 
was  a  clothes  maniac.) 

Luckily  for  the  world,  genius  is  still  a  scarce 
product,  and  the  charlatan  theories  were  laughed 
off  the  map  when  Nordau  wrote  his  partly  amus 
ing  and  wholly  ridiculous  book  on  Degenera 
tion.  The  late  William  James  walloped  him 
into  silence.  But  the  vulgar  error  persists  in 
the  mind  of  the  half-baked  of  culture.  Like 
Mahomet's  coffin,  it  hangs  suspended  'twixt 
earth  and  heaven.  It  bobs  up  in  the  so-called 
new  school  of  Freudian  psychoanalysis,  which 
exploits  to  the  reductio  ad  absurdum  the  von 
Hartmann  theory  of  the  subliminal  conscious 
ness,  with  a  little  spice  of  soothsaying  and  dream- 
book  twaddle  thrown  in  to  lend  an  air  of  novelty. 

12 


HOW  NOT  TO  BE  A  GENIUS 

We  learn  from  Dr.  Freud  that  dreams  are  the 
result  of  unfulfilled  desires  —  which  may  mean 
anything  —  that  authors  unconsciously  reveal 
themselves  in  their  writings.  What  an  astound 
ing  discovery !  Important  if  true.  O  la  belle 
histoire!  Cut  out  the  erotic  element  in  this 
"new"  theory  and  the  world  would  pass  it  by. 
Who  would  read  Leaves  of  Grass  for  its  "poetry" 
if  such  chaste,  odoriferous  "poems"  as  The 
Woman  Who  Waits  for  Me  were  absent? 

Genius  is  a  word  that  has  fallen  into  disrepute 
because  of  its  being  bandied  about  so  freely  by 
our  makers  of  fiction.  That  burlesque  of  a 
raw-head-and-bloody-bones,  Strickland,  the  al 
leged  painter  in  Somerset  Maugham's  melo 
dramatic  "shocker,"  The  Moon  and  Sixpence, 
is  a  case  in  point.  The  clever  author  expects 
his  readers  to  believe  that  a  staid  business  man 
is  transformed  into  a  great  painter  at  the  age 
of  forty.  To  be  sure,  Strickland  was  what  the 
French  call  a  "Sunday  painter,"  one  who  potters 
with  color  tubes  and  canvas  every  seventh  day, 
yet  is  supposed  to  accomplish  what  such  men  of 
genius  as  Degas,  Manet,  Millet,  couldn't  in 
protracted  daily  toil.  And  the  innocent  public 
swallows  such  fairy-tales  because  it  believes 
in  miracles.  You  may  be  sure  of  one  thing  — 
no  one  in  the  history  of  the  Seven  Arts  has  mas 
tered  his  material  save  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 
Works  and  days.  You  can't  change  your  psy 
chology  overnight.  Mr.  Maugham  suggested 
Paul  Gauguin,  the  painter  of  South  Seas  land- 

13 


VARIATIONS 

scapes,  rich  in  color,  decoration  and  arabesques. 
But  Gauguin  was  a  real  genius.  Augustus  John 
too  has  been  dragged  in.  Ridiculous!  We 
mention  Strickland  because  he  seems  to  embody 
the  popular  notion  of  genius.  A  bolt  from  the 
blue,  and  a  stupid  Philistine  becomes  in  a  trice 
a  scarecrow  painter.  No,  he  won't  do,  any 
more  than  Theodore  Dreiser's  The  Genius  will 
serve  as  a  portrait  of  one.  In  Shakespeare  you 
are  jostled  by  genius,  but,  then,  the  poet  was 
a  genius  of  geniuses.  He  englobed  all  forms  of 
genius. 

But  is  genius  a  disease,  like  the  tenor  voice, 
or  the  pearl  in  a  mollusk?  It  is,  we  know,  a 
gift  that  seldom  brings  happiness  to  its  pos 
sessor.  Either  it  is  unmercifully  flouted,  or  else 
unrecognized,  and  no  two  persons  agree  as  to  its 
specific  quality.  There  is  in  Poland  a  poet- 
novelist-playwright  who  bears  a  name  that 
sounds  like  an  unconquered  Polish  fortress.  He 
is  called  Stanislaw  Przybyszewski,  and  when  his 
story,  Homo  Sapiens,  was  translated  and  pub 
lished  here  the  unhappy  man  was  heartily  hated 
by  all  proofreaders  and  compositors.  Do  you 
wonder?  Possibly  that  dislike  was  a  factor  in 
the  suppression  of  the  book,  which  wasn't  a  whit 
less  moral  in  its  implications  than  the  Re-crea 
tion  of  William  J.  Bryan  Kent.  Stanislaw  — 
we  mercifully  omit  the  full  name  —  has  wisely 
written  of  genius  and  has  illustrated  it  in  his  ex 
ceedingly  vivid  personal  career.  Readers  of 
Strindberg's  Inferno,  which  contains  in  com- 

14 


HOW  NOT  TO  BE  A  GENIUS 

pression  more  tortures  than  Dante's  epic,  a  sort 
of  pemmican  hell,  need  hardly  be  reminded  that 
the  rival  to  the  Swedish  dramatist's  affections  is 
Stanislaw  P.  in  the  guise  of  a  pianist  who  plays 
with  overwhelming  power  and  pathos  the  F 
sharp  minor  polonaise  of  Chopin.  That  is  the 
way  the  super-subtle  Pole  courted  one  of  Strind- 
berg's  lady-loves;  it  may  have  been  a  matrimo 
nial  rib,  but  that  is  a  mere  detail. 

Stanislaw  asserts  in  his  brochure,  Chopin  and 
Nietzsche,  that  physicians  do  not  busy  them 
selves  enough  with  history;  if  they  did  they 
would  recognize  that  " decadence"  has  always 
existed;  that  it  is  not  decadence  at  all,  but  only 
a  phase  of  development  quite  as  important  as 
normality;  normality  is  stupidity,  decadence  is 
genius.  Is  there,  he  demands,  a  more  notable 
case  of  the  abnormal  than  the  apostle  of  Protes 
tantism,  Martin  Luther  ?  We  are  all  children  of 
Satan,  he  cries.  Those  rare  men  who  for  the 
sake  of  their  ideals  sacrifice  the  lives  and  happi 
ness  of  thousands,  such  as  Alexander  or  Napo 
leon  —  there  are  more  modern  instances,  if  we 
cared  to  mention  them;  or  those  who  dispel  the 
dreams  of  youth,  Socrates  and  Schopenhauer;  or 
those  who  venture  into  the  depths  of  sin  —  be 
cause  sin  has  depth  —  Poe,  Baudelaire,  Rops; 
and  those  who  love  pain  for  the  sake  of  pain  and 
ascend  the  Golgotha  of  mankind,  Chopin,  Schu 
mann,  Nietzsche  —  of  such  material  is  genius 
compounded.  Satan  is  the  first  philosopher,  the 
first  Anarchist,  and  pain  is  the  foundation  of  all 

IS 


VARIATIONS 

art  and,  with  Satan,  the  father  of  illusions.  I 
quote  these  luminous  reflections  to  prove  how 
easy  it  is  to  twist  a  theory  so  as  to  suit  one's  own 
point  of  view.  The  decadence  theory  is  non 
sense.  I  may  only  refer  you  to  Havelock  ElhYs 
masterly  volume  of  critical  essays,  entitled  Af 
firmations,  for  a  concise  refutation  of  the 
heresy;  and  equally  fallacious  is  the  contention 
of  the  Polish  writer  that  the  normal  always  spells 
stupidity.  The  reverse  is  often  the  case.  Cole 
ridge,  you  may  remember,  disputed,  in  his  Bio- 
graphia  Literaria,  that  antique  sarcasm  of 
Horace,  the  "  genus  irritabile  vatum."  He 
wrote:  "The  men  of  the  greatest  genius,  as  far 
as  we  can  judge  from  their  own  works  or  from 
the  accounts  of  their  contemporaries,  appeared 
to  have  been  of  calm  and  tranquil  temper  in  all 
that  related  to  themselves."  Coleridge  gives  ex 
amples  to  uphold  this  belief.  Taine  has  written 
in  his  history  of  English  literature  of  the  sane 
genius  among  such  old  chaps  as  Rabelais,  Mon 
taigne,  Shakespeare,  and  Goethe,  all  of  whom 
performed  prodigies  of  labor.  No  neurasthenia 
hampered  their  literary  invention.  Yet  Shake 
speare  created  Hamlet,  the  incarnation  of  a  dis 
ordered  will  and  a  poetic  soul  astray. 

Schopenhauer  has  adequately  dealt  with  the 
theme  and  with  more  conviction-breeding  results 
than  many  of  the  later  explorers  in  this  field,  at 
his  time  a  field  outside  of  the  biological  labora 
tory.  He  finds  that  "talent  is  versatile  and  be 
trays  more  acuteness  of  discursive  than  intuitive 
16 


HOW  NOT  TO  BE  A  GENIUS 

knowledge."  The  genius  beholds  another  world 
because  he  has  a  profounder  conception  of  the 
world  which  lies  before  us  all,  inasmuch  as  it 
presents  itself  with  more  objectivity  and  dis 
tinctness  than  it  does  to  less  favored  mortals. 
Myriad-minded  Goethe  summed  up  the  question 
in  a  memorable  phrase.  "Genius  is  incommen 
surable/7  he  told  Eckermann  when  discussing 
Faust.  Mozart  confessed  that  music  came  to 
him  without  his  volition.  So-called  secondary 
selves  exist  in  the  subliminal  mind,  and  in  certain 
circumstances  may  usurp  the  reign  of  the  pri 
mary  self  for  varying  periods  of  time,  just  as  a 
saint  and  sinner  may  inhabit  one  soul.  The  old 
theologians  spoke  of  guardian  angels  and  angels 
of  evil.  Some  see  God  in  an  ecstatic  vision  and 
others  peer  into  the  fiery  pit  of  hell  with  morose 
delectation.  Don't  worry  about  this  moral 
dichotomy.  It's  only  your  various  selves  at 
war.  When  the  dissociation  becomes  a  half- 
dozen  split-up  personalities  struggling  for  mas 
tery  then  it  is  time  to  consult  a  psychiatrist. 
That  way  lies  the  madhouse.  But  we  are  all  of 
us  the  victims  of  our  cells. 

A  genius  is  a  superman  —  a  man,  according  to 
Dr.  Jacobson  (see  his  Possible  Clues  to  the 
Nature  of  Genius),  plus  a  secondary  personal 
ity,  his  genius  not  residing  in  the  primary  self 
but  in  his  secondary  personality.  In  the  one 
case  we  have  the  spiritualistic  medium  —  low 
mentality,  irresponsible  secondary  personality; 
in  the  other  case  we  have  genius  —  high  men- 

17 


VARIATIONS 

tality,  super-rational  secondary  personality.  It 
might  be  well  to  remember  this  fact  just  now 
when  a  wave  of  debasing  superstition  is  rising 
everywhere,  of  which  the  mildest  symptom  is  the 
Ouija-board  and  other  clotted  nonsense;  the 
gravest  symptoms,  devil-worship  and  alleged 
communication  with  spirits;  after  all  cataclysmic 
events,  war,  pestilence,  earthquake,  the  pro 
longed  nerve-tension  causes  "new"  religions, 
witchcraft,  healers,  and  prophets  of  evil  to 
flourish  like  toadstools  in  a  damp,  dank  cellar. 
Mock- turtle  mysticism  and  ineffable  silliness. 
It  is  not  the  denial  of  such  so-called  "phenom 
ena"  that  concerns  us,  for  there  are  numberless 
unexplained  mysteries  in  nature;  all  occult  re 
search  is  not  hocus-pocus;  but  it  is  the  inter 
pretation,  divine  or  diabolic,  of  these  happenings 
to  which  sensible  thinkers  object.  Bateson, 
quoted  by  Dr.  Jacobson,  "conceives  of  evolution 
and  life  as  an  unpacking  of  an  original  complex." 
Here  we  are  knocking  at  the  transcendental  gates 
of  the  Fourth  Spatial  Dimension.  Life  is  an  un 
coiling.  Humanity  is  a  watch-spring  of  the  in 
finite.  Our  existence  is  the  progress  of  a  spiri 
tual  tapeworm.  Death  is  the  grand  vermifuge. 
Nevertheless,  genius  is  a  shy  bird.  Spear  him 
and  put  him  under  the  microscope.  But  first 
catch  your  fish.  And  that  is  always  difficult. 

Man  has  chartered  the  globe,  but,  probably  by 
reason  of  an  almost  ineradicable  superstitious 
timidity,  has  left  the  human  soul  an  undis 
covered  country,  or,  at  least,  but  partially  ex- 

18 


HOW  NOT  TO  BE  A  GENIUS 

plored.  Genius,  whether  manifesting  its  power 
in  the  arts  or  in  the  sciences,  is  the  worthiest 
theme  for  the  philosopher;  not  reactionary  meta 
physicians  like  Bergson,  weavers  of  verbal 
dreams,  spinners  of  futile  cobweb  systems;  but 
the  biologist,  psychiatrist,  the  practical  scientist, 
for  whom  the  visible  as  well  as  the  invisible 
worlds  exist.  "I  breathe,  therefore  I  live,"  said, 
in  effect,  William  James.  (Essays  in  Radical 
Empiricism.)  The  mind  of  man  has  ever  been 
a  house  divided  in  itself.  Yet  it  is  a  consolation 
to  know  that  our  several  subliminal  personalities 
may  be  the  cause  of  our  conflicting  thoughts. 
(The  late  Prof.  Muensterburg  declared  that  such 
a  thing  as  subconsciousness  did  not  exist.)  In 
Faust  we  read  of  two  spirits  that  abide  in  our 
breast,  also  the  spirit  that  denied.  Mephisto 
then  may  be  only  our  second  personality.  How 
ever,  we  haven't  answered  the  question  posed  at 
the  beginning  of  this  Sunday  morning  ramble 
through  the  tangled  forest  of  minor  speculation 
-how  not  to  be  a  genius.  The  answer  is  as 
easy  as  lying  —  never  work ! 


THE  RECANTATIONS  OF  GEORGE 
MOORE 

I  HAD  intended  writing  of  the  tragic  Chopin 
to-day,  but  George  Moore  supervened;  he  and 
Atlantic  City  —  an  odd  combination.  Man 
cannot  live  in  music  alone,  and  when  Maurice 
Speiser  met  me  on  the  boardwalk  and  lent  me 
his  copy  of  Avowals  (numbered  eighty  and 
privately  printed  for  subscribers),  I  shooed 
Chopin  to  the  backyard  of  my  consciousness 
and  proceeded  to  reread  Mr.  Moore.  I  say 
reread  because  much  of  the  subject-matter  in 
this  new,  bulky  volume  saw  the  light  of  pub 
lication  years  ago  in  various  English  and  at 
least  one  American  periodical:  Lippincotts', 
the  Fortnightly,  et  al.  Still,  it  is,  all  of  it,  worth 
while,  notwithstanding  the  fact  the  old  nurse 
of  the  County  Mayo  author  wouldn't  have 
blushed  at  a  line  therein.  Why  the  book  was 
published  as  "wicked"  by  implication  is  difficult 
to  discover.  It  should  be  given  to  the  world 
at  large,  after  several  minor  excisions.  The  one 
gay  anecdote  is  related  in  France,  and  it  is  so 
mildly  diverting  that  it  will  bear  repeating  here. 
An  eccentric  nobleman  adorns  himself  with 
peacock's  feathers  for  the  edification  of  his  pea 
hens  !  Yet  people  subscribe  for  the  pleasure  of 
such  innocent  foolery.  By  all  means,  let  us 
20 


RECANTATIONS  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

have  Avowals  naked  and  unashamed.  Only 
good  Moorovians  will  endure  its  leagues  of 
technical  literary  criticism.  The  Story  Teller's 
Holiday  of  last  year  was  another  kind  of  a  book. 
Rather  blistering  than  elevating.  But  amusing 
always. 

There  was  a  time  when  Mr.  Moore  was  con 
tent  to  be  called  the  Irish  Flaubert;  nowadays 
he  is  evidently  after  the  title  of  the  Celtic  Casa 
nova,  though  hardly  in  these  new  avowals. 
They  will  never  rank  in  interest  with  Memoirs 
of  My  Dead  Life;  or,  indeed,  with  his  Hail 
and  Farewell  Trilogy.  For  one  thing,  printed 
dialogue  makes  slow  reading,  even  when  the 
prose  is  the  incomparable  prose  of  Walter  Savage 
Landor.  The  opening  chapters  are  devoted  to 
discussions,  purely  academic,  between  Edmund 
Gosse  and  George  Moore.  English  prose  nar 
rative  is  the  weakest  part  of  English  literature 
-a  paradoxical  contention.  Mr.  Gosse  puts 
up  a  good  fight,  but  is  pulverized  by  his  op 
ponent,  who  leaves  him  gasping  on  a  balcony 
wrapped  in  a  shawl,  feebly  expostulating.  The 
Moore  dialectic  is  fairly  familiar  to  his  admirers. 
It  is  one-third  lack  of  logic  and  two-thirds  per 
suasion  and  browbeating.  Need  I  add  that  the 
persuasiveness  is  not  wholly  divested  of  a  cer 
tain  veiled  Donnybrookishness  ?  Mr.  Moore 
goes  for  the  hated  Sassenach,  and  only  those 
Englishmen  who  seem  to  resemble  him  are 
treated  with  consideration;  the  Rev.  Laurence 
Sterne,  whose  wheedling  prose  style  is  admir- 
21 


VARIATIONS 

ably  wedded  to  his  prurient  themes  ("Are  you 
Jewish  or  ticklish?"  he  was  asked  by  a  critic 
long  ago),  is  praiseworthy  in  the  eyes  of  our 
critic. 

I  should  have  preferred  to  pose  as  an  adver 
sary  to  Mr.  Moore  the  redoubtable  Prof.  George 
Saintsbury,  who  with  a  Sam  Johnson  bluffness 
would  have  smashed  the  Irishman's  arguments 
at  the  very  first  throw  out  of  the  box.  No  doubt 
about  that.  Mr.  Moore  admits  the  genius  of 
Landor,  Pater,  Lamb,  De  Quincey,  in  the  essay 
form ;  but  it  is  fiction  narrative  he  centres  upon, 
and  despite  De  Foe,  Fielding,  Jane  Austen,  not 
to  speak  of  Dickens,  Thackeray  and  Meredith, 
he  finds  no  good  has  come  forth  from  that  Brit 
ish  Nazareth.  Of  the  exquisite  prose  patterns 
which  Cardinal  Newman  has  woven  for  us  he 
speaks  no  word;  elsewhere,  years  past,  he  has 
expressed  his  dislike  of  Newman's  flowing  style; 
the  "style  coulant"  abhorred  of  Charles  Baude 
laire,  especially  when  it  issued  from  the  pen  of 
George  Sand.  Yet  Mr.  Moore's  Keltic  prose 
(spell  it  with  a  K,  Samivel !)  is  like  Newman's 
in  so  far  as  both  are  subtle,  sensitive,  and  rip 
pling;  both  avoid  dynamic  contrasts,  both  per 
suade  rather  than  assault.  And  there  is  a 
suspicion  of  the  serpentine  in  the  writings  of 
both  men.  The  spiral  prose  of  The  Brook  Kerith 
is  a  case  in  point.  Can't  you  see  that  minotaur 
of  English  literary  criticism  —  or  should  I  say 
Torquemada?  —  George  Saintsbury  frowning 
and  thundering  on  Mr.  Moore,  and  quoting 

22 


RECANTATIONS  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

from  his  History  of  English  Prose-Rhythms ! 
A  battle  of  the  bookmen,  indeed. 

The  recantations  of  George  Moore  become 
increasingly  numerous  with  the  passage  of  the 
years.  I  had  expected  the  inclusion  in  Avowals 
of  his  top-notch  in  criticism,  not  dealing  with 
the  plastic  arts  —  naturally  his  stronghold  —  a 
criticism  that  appeared  about  twenty  years 
ago  in  Cosmopolis,  an  international  magazine 
edited,  if  I  remember  aright,  by  Lady  Randolph 
Churchill.  Far  finer  than  his  study  of  Zola  is 
this  study  of  Flaubert's  Sentimental  Education, 
entitled  A  Tragic  Novel,  the  tragedy  of  drab, 
commonplace  living,  not  that  of  high  heroics 
or  tragic  and  romantic  gestures.  But  Mr.  Moore 
violently  repudiates  his  Flaubert  worship  and 
explains  why  he  doesn't  reprint  the  splendid 
pages  of  that  particular  criticism.  Flaubert,  it 
seems,  is  not  a  novelist,  only  a  satirist  —  he 
says  something  of  the  same  sort  earlier  con 
cerning  George  Meredith  —  and  he  places  him 
far  below  Balzac  as  a  creator  of  character,  be 
low  Turgenieff  as  a  teller  of  tales;  he  even  de 
cries  his  style  —  the  sanity,  simplicity,  which, 
allied  to  its  sonorous  harmonies,  is  one  of  the 
most  fascinating  in  French  literature.  I  fancy 
Mr.  Moore  suffered  from  the  revulsion  which 
often  attacks  critical  pioneers;  as  soon  as  the 
public,  wooed  or  banged  into  submission  by  the 
critic,  begins  to  admire  them  the  critic  moves 
on;  his  object  accomplished,  newer  idols  must 
be  sought,  fresher  victories  achieved;  the  old 

23 


VARIATIONS 

idol  is  again  become  a  block  of  wood.  Mr. 
Saintsbury  fought  for  Baudelaire  and  Flaubert 
before  George  Moore;  nevertheless,  Mr.  Moore 
was  the  first  English-writing  novelist  who 
adopted  Flaubert's  methods;  recall  Untilled 
Fields  and  Evelyn  Inness  —  the  manner,  of 
course,  not  the  matter.  And  there  is  Swin 
burne,  who  after  extravagantly  praising  Walt 
Whitman  violently  repudiated  the  Camden 
"bard,"  later  inventing  the  word  "  Whitmaniac" 
to  signify  his  contempt  for  Walt's  comical  yawp 
ing.  In  humbler  fashion  I  may  give  as  an 
example  of  this  critical  dog-in-the-manger  atti 
tude  my  own  case.  In  1877  I  went  as  a  lad  to 
visit  Walt  across  the  Delaware  River  from  my 
home,  and  from  him  received  the  kiss  of  peace 
and  went  away  with  the  glowing  brow  of  the 
neophyte.  I  became  an  ardent  Whitmaniac 
in  my  teens,  and  for  two  decades  or  more  I  wrote 
of  W.  W.  as  if  he  were  really  a  great  poet.  I 
can't  read  him  now,  nor  can  I  read  the  effusions 
of  his  followers.  He  has  been  a  disruptive  force, 
still  is  one;  to  imitate  his  "poetry"  is  so  easy 
that  an  entire  new  school  of  lads  and  lassies 
are  murdering  English  prosody  and  filling  the 
urn  with  their  lascivious  cater waulings.  Walt 
is  to  blame.  He  did  it  first  in  his  Children  of 
Adam. 

Flaubert  is  not  the  only  writer  from  whom 

Mr.   Moore   has  seceded.     Being  a  peculiarly 

susceptible    Celt,    he    is    always    changing   his 

opinions,  which  is  a  legitimate  function  of  the 

24 


RECANTATIONS  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

male  as  well  as  the  female  intellect.  At  one 
epoch  Dublin  never  knew  when  beginning  a 
fresh  day  whether  her  favorite  son  was  a  Cath 
olic  or  a  Protestant.  It  was  like  a  barometrical 
puzzle.  He  recanted  his  Catholicism  —  de 
canted  might  be  a  better  word  —  and  he 
changed  his  mind  every  morning  about  his  best 
friend,  the  poet,  William  Yeats.  The  New  Irish 
movement  was  to  be  George  Moore  or  it  was  to 
be  nothing.  Finally  John  Millington  Synge  ap 
peared,  and  the  movement,  luckily  enough,  be 
came  Synge.  Being  dead,  this  master  is  spared 
from  the  scarifications  to  which  Moore  subjected 
Yeats,  Edward  Martyn,  and  Lady  Gregory. 
Ireland  is  no  longer  Erin  go  bragh !  and  the  Lord 
knows  what  he  thinks  of  Sinn  Fein.  In  fact,  • 
since  Ireland  did  not  appreciate  the  genius  of 
George  Moore,  he  abandons  Ireland  —  as  he 
abandoned  England  during  the  Boer  Rebellion. 
We  hear  no  more  of  Douglas  Hyde  or  the  revival 
of  Erse  —  says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ! 

He  sharply  criticised  Jane  Austen  and  women 
writers  generally  in  articles  published  in  the 
North  American  Review,  but  in  Avowals  Jane  is 
given  her  just  dues,  which  is  well.  George  Eliot 
and  the  Brontes  he  won't  have.  He  rightfully 
rates  Tolstoy  and  his  absence  of  true  spirituality. 
The  great  Russian  writer  is  not  a  prober  of  the 
human  soul,  despite  the  accepted  belief  to  the 
contrary;  that  is,  he  doesn't  deeply  probe.  His 
rendering  of  reality  borders  on  hallucination. 
Simply  prodigious  is  his  mastery  of  realism. 

25 


VARIATIONS 

Yet  Dostoievsky  is  the  profounder  man  of  the 
pen.  He  lived  and  suffered  the  life  that  Tolstoy 
only  wrote  about  but  never  experienced.  His 
novels,  tedious,  explosive,  tumultuous,  may  be 
the  " psychological  mole-runs"  of  TurgeniefTs 
dictum;  nevertheless  they  are  aglow  with  vital 
ity,  palpitating  with  pity  for  the  downtrodden 
and  humiliated,  and  pullulating  with  humanity. 
Dostoievsky,  an  essentially  morbid  man,  as  was 
Nietzsche,  by  reason  of  this  very  deviation  from 
normality,  was  enabled  to  sink  his  plummet 
into  the  darkest  recesses  of  the  soul.  His  self- 
cruelty  had  a  sadistic  tinge.  But  he  is  the  real 
psychologist,  not  Tolstoy.  Deploring  Tolstoy's 
dodging  of  psychological  issues  —  for  his  religion 
was  of  the  old  intolerant  order  and  he  was  suf 
fering  from  an  excess  of  moralic  acid  in  the 
blood,  which  finally  killed  his  art  —  Mr.  Moore 
yet  refuses  to  give  Dostoievsky  a  truly  exalted 
position.  He  better  likes  Turgenieff,  nor  need 
we  quarrel  with  him  on  this  score.  Turgeniefl 
represents  the  almost  perfect  artist,  blithe, 
Greek,  charming,  while  his  rival,  a  Prometheus 
of  the  inkpot,  groans  in  travail  as  he  shows 
us  his  wounded  soul.  In  the  Confessions  of  a 
Young  Man  the  author  speaks  of  Dostoievsky 
as  "  Gaboriau  with  psychological  sauce."  When 
he  wrote  an  introduction  to  a  translation  of 
Poor  Folk  he  had  evidently  seen  a  great  light. 
But  in  Avowals  he  is  back  in  the  Gaboriau 
trenches. 

A  more  definite  recantation  is  his  present 
26 


RECANTATIONS  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

view  of  Tolstoy.  The  first  avowals,  in  periodical 
form,  saw  him  a  worshipper  at  the  shrine.  I 
well  remember  his  essay,  Since  the  Elizabethans, 
and  its  contemptuous  comparison  of  Tolstoy  and 
Thackeray.  English  fiction,  he  said,  in  effect, 
never  dives  below  the  surface;  it  is  an  affair  of 
decoration,  never  of  depth.  Well  and  good. 
Tolstoy,  like  Balzac,  has  no  counterpart  in  Eng 
lish  literature,  Mr.  Moore  says,  and  maintains 
his  argument  with  admirable  examples.  Musi 
cal  analogies  are  employed.  Verdi  or  Donizetti, 
never  the  passionately  profound  harmonies  of 
Wagner,  are  overheard  in  English  fiction.  With 
a  sense  of  relief  I  find  that  Mr.  Moore  is  still 
faithful  to  Walter  Pater.  The  best  pages  in  the 
volume  are  those  in  which  he  describes  the  art 
and  personality  of  the  shy,  complex  author  of 
Marius.  It  may  be  remembered,  his  eulogy  of 
Marius  in  the  early  confessions.  From  this 
faith  he  has  never  swerved.  Of  Henry  James  he 
was  not  an  admirer.  He  seems  not  to  have  gone 
further  than  The  Portrait  of  a  Lady.  He  en 
countered  Mr.  James  at  the  home  of  the  Robin 
son  girls,  Mary  and  Mabel.  Here  is  a  portrait 
of  our  famous  countryman:  "And  these  thoughts 
drew  my  eyes  to  the  round  head,  already  going 
bald,  to  the  small,  dark  eyes,  closely  set,  and  to 
the  great  expanse  of  closely  shaven  face.  His 
legs  were  short,  and  his  hands  and  feet  large, 
and  he  sat  portentously  in  his  chair,  speaking 
with  some  hesitation  and  great  care,  anxious 
that  every  sentence,  or  if  not  all,  at  least  every 
27 


VARIATIONS 

third  or  fourth,  should  send  forth  a  beam  of 
humor."  Apart  from  the  fact  that  the  eyes  of 
Henry  James  were  not  small,  but  large  and 
heavy  lidded,  eyes  in  which  were  pictured  an 
entire  social  world,  his  description  is  not  without 
a  certain  malicious  verisimilitude.  The  two  men 
were,  naturally  enough,  antipathetic  to  each 
other.  Mr.  James  failed  to  recognize  the  great 
ness  of  Esther  Waters,  and  Mr.  Moore  hated 
humor.  He  objurgates  humor  in  a  writer.  Yet 
he  is,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  humorous. 
And  what  a  bon  mot  was  his  summing  up  of 
Bernard  Shaw  as  being  only  the  "  funny  man  in 
a  boarding  house."  Perhaps.  But  at  the  time 
that  boarding  house  comprised  Europe  and 
America. 

Moore  and  Whistler  were  always  clawing  and 
scratching.  Both  feline,  both  tenors,  and  pos 
sessing  the  tenor  temperament,  how  could  they 
be  expected  to  sing  in  amiable  ensemble? 
Moore  relates  that  James  the  Butterfly  pre 
sented  him  with  a  copy  of  his  Ten  o' Clock, 
inscribed:  "To  George  Moore — for  furtive 
reading,"  which  is  the  epitome  of  irony.  But 
George  never  began  to  repeat  the  epigrams 
of  "Jemmy,"  as  did  Jemmy  those  of  Oscar 
Wilde.  Whistler,  according  to  friends  who 
knew,  would  sit  up  half  the  night  manufacturing 
witticisms.  It  was  to  himself,  not  to  Oscar, 
that  he  should  have  applied  the  remark:  "But 
you  will,  Oscar,  you  will."  The  Irishman  was 
as  spontaneous  in  his  wit  as  the  American  con- 
28 


RECANTATIONS  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

stipated.  However,  " furtive  reading"  is  dis 
tinctly  good.  George  Moore  paid  off  his  score 
in  his  Modern  Painting  when  he  wrote  of  Whis 
tler  that  if  he  had  been  fifty  pounds  heavier  he 
might  have  painted  as  well  as  Velasquez.  And 
weight  and  substance  are  precisely  the  qualities 
lacking  in  the  Whistlerian  canvases,  which  are 
becoming  more  attenuated,  more  ghostly  as  the 
years  wear  on.  If  it  were  not  for  the  etchings 
the  next  generation  would  have  cause  for  won 
derment  over  the  exaggerated  praise  bestowed 
upon  a  painter  whose  originality  principally  de 
rives  from  his  Paris  friend,  Fantin-Latour,  and 
from  the  Japanese. 

But  Avowals  is  good  fun.  It  should  be  placed 
on  the  general  market.  It's  too  decent  to  be 
locked  away  in  the  "enfer"  of  a  bibliophile. 
Apropos  of  nothing,  did  you  hear  George  Moore 
on  the  League  of  Nations?  He  is  convinced 
enough  on  that  score  to  exclaim:  "There's  only 
one  way  of  bringing  about  the  League.  Leave 
off  talking  about  the  President  and  hang  the 
Kaiser." 


29 


CRUSHED  VIOLETS 

"  GOOD  GOD  !  I  forgot  the  violets ! "  exclaimed 
Walter  Savage  Landor,  after  he  had  thrown  his 
cook  out  of  the  window.  This  happened  at 
Fiesole,  near  Florence,  and  within  one  year  of  a 
century  ago.  The  great  prose  master  had  a 
rather  excitable  temperament,  as  Charles  Dick 
ens  has  testified.  (The  novelist  put  him  in 
Bleak  House  as  Boythorn  —  "with  the  genius 
and  much  else  left  out/'  as  Havelock  Ellis  says.) 
Landor  dearly  loved  his  flowers,  and  in  his  dis 
may  he  gave  birth  to  a  classic  phrase.  Nowa 
days  we  would  gladly  put  a  chef  on  the  throne, 
so  debased  has  become  the  world's  cuisine.  But 
Landor  was  an  aristocrat  masquerading  as  a 
fierce  democrat  and  his  gesture  was  a  typical 
one,  and  in  the  gentlemanly  interest;  we  might 
say  a  gentleman's  prerogative,  one  that  has  gone 
quite  out  of  fashion. 

I  am  minded  of  his  despairing  cry  when  I 
think  of  Walter  Pater.  A  member  of  the  deli 
cious  Hermione's  family,  indelibly  recorded  by 
Don  Marquis,  asked  me  once  upon  a  time  if  the 
prose  of  Pater  didn't  remind  me  of  crushed  vio 
lets.  I  related  then  and  there  the  adventure  of 
Landor's  cook  and  the  flowerbed.  Her  answer 
threw  much  light  on  her  mentality:  "I  wonder 
what  the  cook  said?"  she  asked.  But  Pater 

30 


CRUSHED   VIOLETS 

prose  and  crushed  violets !  For  the  life  of  me  I 
can't  bridge  this  gulf  of  the  dissimilar.  Some  of 
Whistler  is  an  indigestion  of  strawberries  and 
cream;  but  Pater  and  violets!  Walter  Pater 
wasn't  as  "  precious,"  as  insipid,  as  his  imitators. 
On  a  certain  occasion  Matthew  Arnold  ad 
vised  Frederic  Harrison  to  "flee  Carlylese  as  the 
very  devil,"  and  doubtless  would  have  given  the 
same  advice  regarding  Paterese.  It  is  true 
Pater  is  dangerous  for  students.  This  theme  of 
style,  so  admirably  vivified  in  Sir  Walter  Ra 
leigh's  monograph  —  the  best  we  know  of;  Rob 
ert  Louis  Stevenson's  essay  on  the  technical  ele 
ments  of  style  is  too  technical,  valuable  as  it  is 
—  has  been  worn  threadbare  from  Aristotle  to 
Renton  and  his  Logic  of  Style.  Pater  produced 
slowly  —  he  wrote  five  books  in  twenty  years,  at 
the  rate  of  an  essay  or  two  every  year,  thus 
matching  Flaubert  in  his  tormented  production. 
The  chief  accusation  brought  against  the  Pater 
method  of  working  and  his  consequent  style  is 
its  lack  of  spontaneity;  it  is  not  a  natural  style. 
But  a  "natural  style,"  so  called,  is  not  encoun 
tered  in  its  full  flowering  more  than  a  half  dozen 
times  during  the  course  of  a  century;  perhaps 
that  figure  is  an  exaggeration.  The  French 
write  all  but  flawless  prose.  To  match  Flaubert, 
Renan,  or  Anatole  France  we  must  go  to  Ruskin, 
Newman,  and  Pater.  When  we  say,  "Let  us 
write  simple,  straightforward  English,"  we  are 
setting  a  standard  that  has  been  reached  only 
by  Thackeray,  Newman,  Arnold,  and  how  few 


VARIATIONS 

others?  There  are  as  many  victims  of  the 
" natural  English"  formula  as  there  are  of  the 
" artificial"  formula  of  Pater  and  Stevenson. 
The  first-named  write  careless,  flabby,  colorless, 
undistinguished,  lean  commercial  English,  and 
pass  unnoticed  in  the  vast  whirlpool  of  universal 
mediocrity,  where  the  cliche  is  lord  of  the  para 
graph.  The  others,  victims  to  a  misguided  ideal 
of  affected  "fine  writing,"  are  more  easily  de 
tected  and  denounced  by  purists,  pedants,  and 
other  sultry  professorial  persons.  A  master, 
Renan,  disliked  the  teaching  of  "style"  per  se 
-  as  if  the  secret  could  be  imparted  —  yet  he 
toiled  over  his  manuscripts.  We  recall  the 
Flaubert  case.  With  Pater  one  should  not  rush 
to  the  conclusion,  because  he  produced  slowly, 
that  he  was  of  an  artificiality  all  compact.  For 
him  prose  was  a  fine  art.  He  could  no  more 
have  used  a  phrase  coined  by  another  than  he 
could  have  worn  the  other  man's  hat.  He  em 
broidered  upon  the  canvas  of  his  themes  the 
grave  and  lovely  phrases  we  so  envy  and  admire. 
Prose  —  "cette  ancienne  et  tres  jalouse  chose," 
as  it  was  described  by  Stephane  Mallarme  —  for 
Pater  was  at  once  a  pattern  and  a  cadence,  a 
picture  and  a  song.  Never  suggesting  hybrid 
"poetic-prose,"  the  stillness  of  his  style  —  at 
mospheric,  languorous,  sounding  sweet  under 
tones  —  is  always  in  the  true  rhythm  of  prose. 
Speed  is  absent.  The  tempo  is  usually  lenten. 
Brilliancy  is  not  pursued;  there  is  a  hieratic, 
almost  episcopal,  pomp.  The  sentences  uncoil 

32 


CRUSHED  VIOLETS 

their  many-colored  lengths;  there  are  echoes, 
repercussions,  tonal  imagery,  and  melodic  evoca 
tion;  there  is  clause  within  clause  that  occasion 
ally  confuse;  for  compensation  we  are  given  har 
monies  newly  orchestrated,  as  salient,  as  mor 
dant,  and  as  subtly  rare  as  chords  in  the  music 
of  Brahms  or  Debussy.  Sane  prose  it  always  is; 
but  seldom  simple.  It  is  extremely  personal,  and 
while  it  may  not  make  music  for  every  ear,  it  is 
exquisitely  adapted  to  the  idea  it  garbs.  Read 
Ruskin  aloud  and  then  apply  the  same  vocal  test 
to  Pater,  and  the  magnificent  harmonies  of  the 
older  man  will  conquer  your  ear  by  storm;  but 
Pater,  like  Newman,  will  make  your  ear  captive 
in  a  persuasive  snare  more  delicately  varied,  and 
with  modulations  more  enchanting.  Never  ora 
torical,  in  eloquence  slightly  muffled,  the  last 
manner  of  Pater  hinted  at  newer  combinations. 
Of  his  prose  we  may  say,  quoting  his  own  words 
concerning  another  theme:  "It  is  beauty  wrought 
from  within,  ...  the  deposit,  little  cell  by  cell, 
of  strange  thoughts  and  fantastic  reveries  and 
exquisite  passions." 

The  prose  of  Jeremy  Taylor  is  more  impas 
sioned,  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  richer  and  full  of 
flashing  conceits;  there  are  deeper  organ  tones 
in  De  Quincey,  and  Ruskin  excels  in  effects, 
rhythmic  and  sonorous;  but  the  prose  of  Pater 
is  more  sinuous,  subtle,  more  felicitous,  and  in 
its  essence  consummately  intense.  Morbid  it 
is,  sometimes,  and  its  rich  polyphony  palls  if 
one  is  not  in  the  mood,  and  in  greater  measure 

33 


VARIATIONS 

than  the  prose  of  classic  masters,  for  the  world 
is  older  and  Pater  was  often  weary  of  life.  But 
suggestions  of  morbidity  may  be  found  in  every 
writer  from  Plato  to  Dante,  from  Dante  to 
Shakespeare  and  Goethe.  It  is  but  the  faint 
spice  of  mortality  which  lends  a  stimulating  if 
sharp  perfume  to  all  literatures.  Beautiful  art 
is  always  challenged  as  corrupting.  There  may 
be  a  grain  of  truth  in  the  accusation.  Man  can 
not  live  by  wisdom  alone,  so  art  was  invented  by 
him  to  console,  to  disquiet,  to  arouse.  Art  may 
be  a  dangerous  adventure  and  also  an  anodyne, 
like  religion.  And  unhappily  we  are  losing  our 
taste  for  adventuring  amidst  dangerous  ideas. 
Once  deprived  of  moral  self-determination,  of 
the  right  of  private  judgment,  man  soon  relapses 
into  a  vegetable  existence.  Whenever  a  new 
poet  or  philosopher  appears  he  is  straightway 
accused  of  tampering  with  the  moral  currency. 
This  is  only  mediocrity's  mode  of  adjusting  too 
marked  mental  disproportions.  Difference  en 
genders  hatred.  In  this  period,  when  art  and 
literature  are  violently  despised  and  persecuted, 
do  not  let  us  be  frightened  by  the  word  "  wick 
ed.  "  For  my  part,  as  an  old  practitioner  in  lit 
erary  and  artistic  poisons,  I  have  never  encoun 
tered  a  book  or  a  picture  or  a  sonata  that  was 
so  immoral  as  to  kill  at  twenty  paces.  So  let  us 
cheer  up,  read  Pater,  Baudelaire,  and  the  Bible 
—  from  which  they  derive  —  and  blench  not 
before  the  dissonantal  batteries  of  the  Neo- 
Scythian  composers. 

34 


CRUSHED  VIOLETS 

There  is  another  Pater,  one  far  removed  from 
the  weaver  of  colored  silken  phrases.  If  he  re 
calls  the  richness  of  Keats  in  the  texture  of  his 
prose,  he  can  also  suggest  the  aridity  of  Spencer. 
There  are  essays  of  his  as  cold,  as  logically 
adamant,  and  as  tortuous  as  sentences  in  the 
Synthetic  Philosophy.  Luckily  his  tendency 
to  abstract  reasoning  was  subdued  by  the  hu 
manism  of  his  temper.  There  are  not  many 
"purple  panels"  in  his  prose;  "purple"  in  the 
De  Quincey  or  Ruskin  manner;  no  "fringes  of 
the  north  star"  style.  He  never  wrote  in  sheer 
display.  For  the  boorish  rhetoric  and  apish 
attitudes  of  much  modern  writing  he  betrayed 
no  sympathy.  His  critical  range  is  catholic. 
Consider  his  essays  on  Lamb,  Coleridge,  Words 
worth,  Winckelmann,  not  to  mention  those  finely 
wrought  masterpieces,  the  studies  of  Da  Vinci, 
Giorgione,  Botticelli,  Joachim  du  Bellay.  Even 
the  newly  gathered  minor  essays,  slight  as  they 
are  in  theme  and  treatment,  reveal  the  master. 

Somewhat  cloistered  in  his  attitude  toward 
the  normal  world  of  work,  often  the  artist  for 
art's  sake,  he  may  never  trouble  the  main  cur 
rents  of  literature ;  but  he  will  always  be  a  writer 
for  writers,  a  critic  for  critics.  Little  books  may 
have  their  destiny.  Pater  was  a  thinker  whose 
vision  pierces  the  shell  of  appearances,  the  com 
poser  of  a  polyphonic  prose-music  which  echoes 
a  harmonious  adagio  heard  within  the  spaces  of 
a  Gothic  cathedral,  through  the  multi-colored 
windows  of  which  filters  alien  daylight.  It  was 

35 


VARIATIONS 

a  favorite  contention  of  his  that  all  the  arts 
aspire  toward  the  condition  of  music.  This  idea 
is  the  keynote  of  Walter  Pater,  mystic  and  musi 
cian,  who,  like  his  own  Marius  the  Epicurean, 
carried,  his  life  long,  "in  his  bosom  across  a 
crowded  public  place  —  his  own  soul."  And 
yet ! 


BAUDELAIRE'S  LETTERS  TO  HIS 
MOTHER 

WHEN  a  well-known  man  dies  in  England 
they  ask:  What  did  he  do?  In  France:  How 
did  he  do  it?  In  the  United  States:  How  much 
did  he  leave?  But  the  Socialist  in  every  land 
says:  He  didn't  do  it!  The  poetic  production 
of  Charles  Baudelaire,  if  put  to  the  same  test 
questions,  might  easily  be  conceived  as  evoking 
even  more  variety  of  responses.  Baudelaire 
has  said  that  nations  produce  great  men  against 
their  will.  While  his  position  in  the  poetic 
firmament  of  France  is  that  of  a  star  of  the 
first  magnitude,  there  are,  nevertheless,  dissi 
dents,  especially  among  foreign  critics,  who 
either  cannot  or  will  not  admit  what  is  become 
a  truism  in  French  criticism.  And  the  critical 
literature  concerning  the  poet  grows  apace. 
His  letters  to  his  mother,  recently  published, 
make  a  volume  admirably  calculated  to  illumi 
nate  the  character  of  the  man.  It  contains  a 
preface  and  notes  by  Jacques  Crepet,  who,  it 
may  be  remembered,  assisted  his  father,  Eu 
gene  Crepet,  in  the  biographical  study  of  Baude 
laire,  a  definitive  study,  one  is  tempted  to  add, 
for  it  dissipated  a  lot  of  legends  (most  of  them 
fabricated  by  the  poet  himself)  and  put  his 
house  of  life  into  some  sort  of  order.  Above 

37 


VARIATIONS 

all,  it  cleared  up  the  rather  murky  atmosphere 
of  his  relations  with  Jeanne  Duval,  his  Black 
Venus,  who  was  in  reality  a  young  woman  with 
hardly  a  moiety  of  African  blood  in  her  veins. 
But  she  served  as  a  peg  for  the  poet  upon  which 
to  hang  some  of  his  most  acrid  and  lovely  verse, 
therefore  she  must  pass  muster  in  any  estimate 
of  his  disquieting  genius. 

Withal,  the  exegetical  literature  is  not  large. 
George  Saintsbury  introduced  him  to  English 
readers,  although  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 
had  in  practice,  if  not  by  precept,  brought  his 
" poisonous  honey  from  France"  —  Tennyson's 
phrase.  The  Letters  (1841-66)  were  published 
in  1907  by  the  Mercure  de  France,  which  also 
fathered  a  bulky  volume  devoted  to  the  pos 
thumous  works  (1908).  La  Plume  had  in  1893 
republished  from  the  Belgian  edition  the  con 
demned  pieces  from  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai,  with  an 
extraordinary  frontispiece  by  the  Belgian  etcher, 
Armand  Rassenfosse.  There  are  some  poetic 
numbers  in  this  rare  plaque  —  eagerly  sought  for 
by  lovers  of  exotic  literature  —  yet  the  majority 
of  the  pieces  must  be  read  book  in  one  hand,  the 
other  hand  tightly  closing  the  nostrils.  These 
suppressed  poems  are  not  the  best  Baudelairia. 
Feli  Gautier's  illustrated  pamphlet  (Editions  de 
la  Plume)  is  the  most  succinct  account  of  the 
poet.  There  is  also  a  handy  little  volume  by 
Alphonse  Seche  and  Jules  Bertaut,  garnered 
from  various  sources,  yet  of  critical  merit.  And 
in  1917,  during  the  heat  of  conflict,  Guillaume 


BAUDELAIRE'S  LETTERS 

Apollinaire  prefaced  the  definitive  text  of  the 
poems  and  said  some  pertinent  things  of  Baude 
laire.  He  calls  the  poet  the  literary  son  of  Cho- 
derlos  de  Laclos  and  Edgar  Poe  —  a  shuddering 
combination,  indeed. 

The  previous  collection  of  Letters  are  of  more 
general  interest,  for  they  are  addressed  to  his 
most  distinguished  contemporaries  —  painters, 
poets,  musicians  —  his  friend  Richard  Wagner 
among  the  rest  —  men  of  letters  and  aristocratic 
ladies.  But  in  the  Letters  to  his  mother,  Mme. 
Aupick,  the  atmosphere  is  more  dramatic,  more 
intense.  A  duel  is  fought  from  his  school  days 
to  the  year  previous  to  his  death;  the  duel  of  a 
man,  half  crazed  with  alcohol  and  drugs,  and  a 
mother  who  failed  to  understand  the  queer  duck 
ling  of  genius  she  had  hatched  out  in  her  first 
marriage.  Demands  for  money  fill  the  ma 
jority  of  these  epistles.  Pleas  for  his  poetic 
work  also  loom  largely,  but  poverty  is  the  lead 
ing  motive  throughout.  We  catch  more  than  a 
profile  portrait  of  the  mother;  it  is  not  always 
winning  or  " motherly.'7  How  could  it  be  with 
such  a  son?  A  half -Hamlet,  he  was  jealous  of 
his  mother's  second  husband.  It  was  one  of  the 
determining  causes  in  his  morbid  growth.  How 
has  his  case  so  long  escaped  the  psychiatrists  of 
the  psychoanalytic  school?  Albert  Mordell,  in 
his  Erotic  Element  in  Literature,  could  have 
found  him  a  better  subject  than  Stendhal  for  the 
(Edipus-complex.  Notwithstanding  his  Flowers 
of  Evil,  his  diabolic  and  dandical  poses,  Baude- 

39 


VARIATIONS 

laire  was  not  a  wicked-hearted  man.  Weak  he 
was  rather  than  depraved.  And  too  curious  of 
certain  matters.  He  did  explore  the  subcellars 
of  the  soul,  dive  into  cesspools,  and  expose  putrid 
sores.  A  scavenger  poet,  nevertheless  a  great 
poet,  the  greatest  since  Hugo.  To-day  his  suc 
cessor  to  the  purple  is  Gabriele  d'Annunzio. 

There  was  decay  in  Baudelaire's  bones,  a 
necrosis  of  the  moral  nature,  yet  no  more  fervent 
believer  among  latter-day  poets  in  God  and  his 
Mother  has  penned  their  praises,  except  Ver- 
laine.  He  did  lay  too  much  stress  on  his  ad 
miration  for  Satan,  an  admiration  well-nigh 
Manichean,  but  he  argued  rightly  when  he  said 
that  one  can't  believe  in  the  Almighty  and  not 
believe  in  the  Adversary.  Theologically  speak 
ing,  this  is  an  inexpugnable  position;  in  reality 
the  world-experiences  of  the  last  five  years  have 
uprooted  a  belief  that  Satan  is  bound  and  sealed 
in  some  hellish  solitude.  Roaming  about  and 
seeking  whom  he  may  devour,  would  be  the  con 
sensus  of  opinion  among  pious  folk.  Baudelaire 
believed  in  the  devil  because  he  had  a  personal 
devil.  Hence  his  Litanies  to  Satan,  later  imi 
tated  by  Giosue  Carducci  in  his  Hymn  to  Satan. 
"  Salute,  O  Satana,  O  ribellione,  O  forza  vindice, 
Delia  ragione !"  But  in  his  Litanies  the  French 
poet  is  more  explicit;  his  refrain  is  "O  Satan, 
prends  pitie  de  ma  longue  misere!"  And  this 
from  the  poet  of  De  profundis  clamavi  and  the 
hymn,  in  Latin,  to  Saint  Francis  (Francisco 
meas  Laudes) ! 

40 


BAUDELAIRE'S  LETTERS 

A  third  person  has  a  share  in  the  new  Letters, 
M.  Ancelle,  the  advocate  and  guardian  of  the 
errant  Charles.  Alternately  cajoling  and  bully 
ing,  the  letters  addressed  him  by  his  charge 
reveal  a  curious  mentality.  The  father  of  Bau 
delaire  bequeathed  his  son  about  seventy-five 
thousand  francs,  soon  dissipated  by  the  in 
cipient  dandy  on  pictures,  furniture,  jewelry, 
bibelots,  clothes,  and  light  o'  loves;  yet  he 
seemed  to  think  that  his  guardian  was  robbing 
him,  that  his  mother  hated  him.  In  the  mists 
and  ecstasies  of  his  wild  life  he  saw  nothing 
clearly  —  except  his  shining  visions,  and  being 
of  an  obstinate  nature,  he  pinned  these  visions 
to  paper.  The  history  of  art  can  show  few  more 
laborious  workmen  than  Baudelaire;  his  was 
the  technical  heroism  of  which  Henry  James 
speaks.  Despite  his  drugs  and  drinks,  he  never 
ceased  working,  the  work  of  an  intellectual 
galley-slave.  He  filed  his  poems.  He  wrote 
criticism  —  Manet,  Monet,  Cezanne,  and  Rich 
ard  Wagner  are  specimens  of  his  critical  clair- 
voyancy  —  read  his  Salons  and  his  splendid 
tribute  to  the  genius  of  Wagner  in  his  Music 
of  the  Future.  Luck  seemed  against  him.  Like 
Balzac,  he  was  forever  in  debt.  His  mother 
came  to  the  rescue;  his  friends  were  worn  out 
helping  him  across  perilous  pecuniary  quag 
mires.  Then  he  fled  to  Belgium,  a  country  he 
loathed,  and  celebrated  that  loathing  in  dis 
tasteful  verse,  there  to  be  stricken  with  general 
paralysis,  and  later  to  be  brought  back  to  Paris, 


VARIATIONS 

to  die  cared  for  by  the  mother  he  believed  inimi 
cal  to  him.  The  mystery  is  that  he  didn't  suc 
cumb  earlier  in  his  life  to  the  perpetual  assaults 
on  his  health. 

When  his  mother  married  the  father  of  the 
poet,  Joseph  Francis  Baudelaire  —  or  Beaude- 
laire  —  she  was  twenty-seven,  her  husband 
sixty-two.  By  his  first  marriage  the  elder  Bau 
delaire  had  one  son,  Claude,  who,  like  his  half- 
brother,  Charles,  died  of  paralysis.  After  the 
death  of  the  father  the  widow  married  within 
a  year  the  handsome,  ambitious  Aupick,  then 
Chef  de  Bataillon,  Lieutenant-Colonel,  deco 
rated  with  the  Legion  of  Honor,  later  General 
and  Ambassador  to  Madrid,  Constantinople, 
and  London.  Charles  was  a  frail,  nervous  youth, 
but,  unlike  most  children  of  genius,  he  was  an 
excellent  scholar  and  won  brilliant  prizes  at 
college.  In  this  d'Annunzio  resembled  him. 
His  stepfather  was  proud  of  him.  From  the 
Royal  College  at  Lyons  Charles  went  to  the 
Lycee  Louis-le-Grand,  Paris,  but  was  expelled 
in  1839.  (He  was  born  in  1821,  also  the  birth 
year  of  Flaubert.)  Troubles  soon  began  at 
home.  He  disdained  his  mother  and  quarrelled 
with  General  Aupick.  She  has  confessed  that 
she  was  partially  to  blame;  in  the  flush  of  her 
second  love  she  had  forgotten  her  boy.  He 
could  not  forget  nor  forgive  what  he  called  her 
infidelity  to  the  memory  of  his  father.  Hamlet- 
like,  he  was  inconsolable.  The  worthy  Bishop 
of  Montpelier,  an  old  family  friend,  said  that 

42 


BAUDELAIRE'S  LETTERS 

Charles  was  a  little  crazy;  that  second  mar 
riages  usually  bring  woe  in  their  train.  The 
young  poet  contented  himself  with  muttering: 
"When  a  mother  has  such  a  son  she  doesn't  re 
marry."  The  reverse  was  probably  the  truth. 
He  wrote  in  his  journal:  "My  ancestors  idiots 
or  maniacs  ...  all  victims  of  terrible  passions  " ; 
which  was  another  of  his  exaggerations.  His 
father  was  a  student,  a  practical  man,  a  steady- 
going  bourgeois.  On  the  paternal  side  the 
grandfather  of  Charles  was  a  Champenois  peas 
ant;  his  mother's  people  presumably  were  of 
Normandy,  though  little  is  known  of  her  fore 
bears.  Charles  believed  himself  lost  from  the 
time  his  half-brother  was  stricken  with  paralysis, 
as  well  he  might.  Like  many  others,  Baudelaire 
was  a  victim  to  a  malady  the  origins  of  which 
were  little  known  in  his  day.  He  also  believed 
that  his  own  instability  of  temperament  was  the 
result  of  the  disparity  of  years  in  his  parents. 

In  the  heyday  of  his  blood  he  was  perverse. 
Let  us  credit  him  with  contradicting  the  Byronic 
notion  that  ennui  can  be  best  cured  by  evil 
ways;  sin,  Baudelaire  found  the  saddest  of 
diversions.  Despite  Theophile  Gautier's  stories 
about  the  hashish  club,  Catulle  Mendes  denies 
that  the  poet  was  addicted  to  the  hemp  habit. 
What  the  majority  of  mankind  does  not  know 
concerning  the  habits  of  literary  workers  is  this 
prime  fact:  that  men  who  toil  writing  poetry 
—  and  there  is  no  mental  toil  comparable  to 
it,  not  even  the  higher  mathematics  —  cannot 

43 


VARIATIONS 

indulge  in  drink  or  opium  without  speedy  col 
lapse.  The  old-fashioned  ideas  of  " inspiration," 
spontaneity,  easy  improvisation,  of  the  sudden 
bolt  from  heaven,  are  delusions  still  hugged  by 
the  world.  To  be  told  that  Chopin  filed  at  his 
music  for  years,  that  in  his  smithy  Beethoven 
forged  his  thunderbolts  in  the  sweat  of  his  sooty 
brows,  that  Manet  slaved  like  a  dock  laborer, 
that  Baudelaire  was  a  mechanic  in  his  devotion 
to  work,  may  be  a  disillusion  for  the  sentimen 
tal.  Yet  such  is  the  case.  Minerva  springing 
full-fledged  from  Jupiter's  skull  is  a  pretty  fancy, 
but  Balzac  and  Flaubert  did  not  encourage  that 
fancy.  Work  literally  killed  them,  as  it  killed 
Poe  and  Jules  de  Goncourt.  Maupassant  went 
insane  because  he  would  work  and  he  would 
play  the  same  day.  Baudelaire  worked  and 
worried.  His  debts  haunted  him.  His  consti 
tution  was  undoubtedly  flawed,  but  that  his 
life  was  one  prolonged  debauch  is  a  nightmare 
of  the  moral  police  in  some  white  cotton  night 
cap  country.  These  letters  to  his  mother  are 
the  most  human  of  documents  and  they  prove 
the  contrary.  Charles  Baudelaire  is  the  sad 
dest  and  the  profoundest  poet  in  modern  litera 
ture. 

Speaking  of  Nietzsche,  I  am  reminded  of 
the  study  by  William  M.  Salter,  Nietzsche  the 
Thinker,  which  happened  to  be  published  here 
at  an  inopportune  time  (1917).  It  is  the  most 
satisfactory  exposition  of  the  ideas  of  the  great 

44 


BAUDELAIRE'S  LETTERS 

poet-philosopher,  who,  even  if  he  did  not  create 
an  inclosed  system,  has  given  birth  to  original 
and  suggestive  ideas.  Mr.  Salter  has,  of  course, 
exploded  the  erroneous  notion  that  Nietzsche 
was  persona  grata  with  the  Prussians.  A  letter 
in  my  possession,  though  not  addressed  to  me 
—  alas !  I  have  but  one  written  to  me  —  be 
gins  thus:  "Woe  to  the  victors,  for  they  shall 
be  vanquished!"  A  veritable  prophecy.  This 
was  dated  1875,  and  alluded  to  the  Franco- 
Prussian  War,  the  consequences  of  which  sor 
rowed  the  soul  of  Nietzsche.  The  Salter  book 
is  testimony  to  American  scholarship;  cogent, 
bold,  brilliant,  and  conclusive. 


45 


THE  TWO  TEMPTATIONS 

THE  two  Temptations!  Sounds  melodra 
matic,  doesn't  it?  But  it  only  refers  to  the 
various  versions  of  a  great  book.  All  good 
Flaubertians  will  rejoice  to  learn  that  the  earlier 
draft  of  Flaubert's  Temptation  of  St.  Antony, 
has  been  given  a  fitting  English  garb.  This 
translation  is  made  from  the  1849  and  I^56 
manuscripts,  edited  by  Louis  Bertrand,  and  is 
by  Rene  Francis.  The  preface  is  by  Sir  Gaston 
Maspero,  distinguished  archaeologist,  and  there 
is  also  a  prefatory  note  by  Louis  Bertrand. 
This  version  must  not  be  confounded  with  the 
definitive  one  of  1874,  Englished  in  superlative 
fashion  by  Lafcadio  Hearn  and  published  here 
in  1910.  The  new  and  bulky  volume,  admi 
rably  printed  and  copiously  illustrated,  is  a 
literary  curiosity  without  which  no  Flaubert  col 
lection  would  be  complete.  To  be  sure,  Flau 
bert  translated  is  Flaubert  traduced,  for  as 
Arthur  Symons  has  written,  Flaubert  is  difficult 
to  translate  because  he  has  no  fixed  rhythm. 

"His  prose  keeps  step  with  no  regular  march 
music.  He  invents  the  rhythm  of  every  sen 
tence  ;  he  changes  his  cadence  with  every  mood 
or  for  the  convenience  of  every  fact.  He  has 
no  theory  of  beauty  in  form  apart  from  what 


THE  TWO  TEMPTATIONS 

it  expresses.  For  him  form  is  a  living  tiling, 
the  physical  body  of  thought,  which  it  clothes 
and  interprets.  Compare  the  style,"  continues 
Mr.  Symons,  "of  Flaubert  in  his  books  and  you 
will  find  that  each  book  has  its  own  rhythm, 
perfectly  appropriate  to  its  subject-matter.  In 
Chateaubriand,  Gautier,  even  Baudelaire,  the 
cadence  is  always  the  same;  the  most  exquisite 
word  painting  of  Gautier  can  be  translated 
rhythm  for  rhythm  without  difficulty  into  Eng 
lish.  Once  you  have  mastered  the  tune  you 
have  merely  to  go  on;  every  verse  will  be  the 
same."  Not  so  with  Flaubert.  His  is  truly 
polyphonic  prose  —  a  phrase,  by  the  way,  that 
Amy  Lowell  uses  to  describe  an  amorphous  form 
of  prose  and  poetry.  When  I  invented  the  com 
bination  years  ago  I  meant  only  prose,  what 
George  Saintsbury  would  call  "numerous 
prose."  See  his  valuable  critical  History  of 
English  Prose  Rhythm. 

While  on  a  visit  in  1845,  Flaubert  visited 
Genoa.  There,  in  the  Palace  Balbi-Senarega 
-  not  at  the  Doria,  as  Maxime  du  Camp  wrote 
with  his  accustomed  carelessness  —  the  French 
writer  saw  an  old  picture  by  Breughel  (probably 
Pieter  the  younger,  surnamed  Hell-Breughel) 
that  represents  a  Temptation  of  St.  Antony. 
It  is  dingy  in  color  and  far  from  a  masterpiece. 
But  Flaubert,  who  loved  the  grotesque,  pro 
cured  an  engraving  of  this  picture,  and  it  hung 
till  the  day  of  his  death  in  his  study  at  Croisset, 
near  Rouen.  I  have  seen  it,  as  it  still  hangs  in 

47 


VARIATIONS 

the  Flaubert  Museum  there.  This  picture  was 
the  spring-board  for  his  two  Temptations. 
Their  germ  may  be  found  in  his  mystery  play, 
Smarh,  with  its  demon  and  its  metaphysical 
coloring.  But  Breughel  surely  set  into  motion 
the  mental  machinery  of  the  Temptation,  which 
never  stopped  whirring  till  1874. 

The  first  draft  of  the  Temptation  was  begun 
May  24,  1848,  and  finished  September  12,  1849. 
The  manuscript  numbered  five  hundred  and 
forty  pages.  Set  aside  for  Madame  Bovary, 
this  draft  was  again  taken  up  and  the  second 
version  was  made  in  1856;  when  finished  the 
manuscript  was  reduced  to  one  hundred  and 
ninety-three  pages.  Not  satisfied,  Flaubert 
returned  to  the  work  in  1872,  and  when  ready 
for  publication  in  1874  the  number  of  pages 
was  one  hundred  and  thirty-six;  even  then  he 
cut  out  from  ten  chapters,  three.  When  a  few 
years  later  the  1856  version  was  given  to  the 
world  French  critics  were  astonished  to  find  it 
so  different  from  the  definitive  version  of  1874. 
The  critical  taste  of  Flaubert  was  vindicated. 
His  was  true  technical  heroism.  Reading  in 
1849  the  earliest  version  to  his  friends  Bouilhet 
and  Du  Camp  he  had  been  bidden  to  burn  the 
stuff;  instead  he  boiled  it  down  into  the  1856 
version.  To  his  dearest  friend,  Ivan  Turgenieff, 
he  submitted  his  1872  draft.  Thus  it  came  that 
the  wonderfully  colored  psychic  and  philosophic 
panorama,  this  Gulliver-like  excursion  round 
and  about  the  master-ideas  and  religions  of  the 
48 


THE  TWO  TEMPTATIONS 

antique  and  early  Christian  worlds  was  at  last 
published. 

All  the  youthful  Flaubert,  the  "spouter"  of 
blazing  phrases,  the  lover  of  jewelled  words,  of 
picturesque  and  monstrous  ideas  and  situations 
is  in  the  first  turbulent  version  of  the  Tempta 
tion;  in  the  definitive  version  he  is  more  critical, 
historical.  As  his  emotions  cooled  with  the 
years,  Flaubert  had  grown  intellectually.  The 
first  Temptation  is  romantic,  religious;  the 
1874  is  better  composed  and  sceptical.  Ar 
ranged  more  dramatically  than  the  first,  the 
author's  leanings  toward  Oriental  mysticism 
and  the  dominating  ideas  of  the  classic  world 
are  better  revealed  in  the  last  version.  The 
psychological  gradations  of  character  are  more 
clearly  indicated  in  this  version.  We  cannot  agree 
with  Louis  Bertrand,  editor  of  the  1856  version, 
that  it  is  superior  to  the  version  of  1874.  It 
seems  more  novel,  that's  all.  Flaubert  was 
never  so  much  the  surgeon  as  when  he  operated 
upon  this  manuscript.  He  often  hesitated,  he 
always  suffered,  but  he  never  flinched  when  his 
mind  was  fully  resolved.  It  is  for  the  student 
a  subject  of  enthralling  interest  to  follow  the 
slow  growth  of  these  various  versions. 

"  Since  Goethe,"  would  be  a  suggestive  title  for 
an  essay  on  the  various  epics  written  since  his 
death.  The  list  would  not  be  large.  In  France 
there  are  only  the  barren  rhetorical  exercises 
of  Edgar  Quinet's  Ahasuerus,  the  insurrec 
tionary  poems  of  Hugo  and  the  frigidly  faultless 

49 


VARIATIONS 

verse  of  Leconte  de  Lisle.  But  a  work  of  such 
profound  depth  and  heroic  power  as  Faust 
there  is  not,  except  the  Temptation  of  St.  An 
tony,  which  is  impregnated  by  the  Faustian 
spirit  —  though  in  its  development  poles  apart 
from  the  older  poem  —  that  we  are  not  sur 
prised  when  we  learn  that  the  youthful  Flaubert 
was  a  passionate  admirer  of  Goethe,  even  ad 
dressing  to  his  memory  a  long  poem  in  alex 
andrines.  The  Temptation  is  the  only  poem  — 
despite  its  prose  it  is  poetic  —  that  may  be 
classed  with  Brand  or  Zarathushtra.  At  times, 
in  its  sweep  of  execution  and  grandeur  of  con 
ception,  it  grazes  certain  episodes  in  Faust. 

But  though  it  may  excel  in  verbal  beauty  or 
in  its  imaginative  presentation  of  the  problems 
of  volition,  it  falls  short  of  Goethe's  ethical 
vision.  Faust  is  a  man  who  wills.  "In  the 
beginning  was  the  act."  Antony  is  static,  not 
dynamic.  Faust  is  tempted  by  Mephisto,  yet 
does  not  lose  his  soul.  Flaubert's  hermit  resists 
Satan  at  his  subtlest;  withal,  we  do  not  feel 
that  his  soul  is  as  much  worth  the  saving  as 
Faust's.  Man  for  man,  Faust  is  the  more  sig 
nificant;  Antony  is  narrow-minded;  indeed, 
almost  besotted  by  superstition.  He  crystallizes, 
also  symbolizes,  a  vanished  period  of  mythology. 
Faust  stands  for  the  man  of  the  present,  and  in 
the  second  part  of  the  poem  the  man  of  the 
future.  Ideas  are  the  heroes  of  Flaubert's  epic, 
though  St.  Antony's  is  a  metaphysical  history, 
not  a  human  one  like  Faust's. 

50 


THE  TWO  TEMPTATIONS 

But  to  Faust  alone  may  the  Temptation  be 
compared.  George  Saintsbury  has  pronounced 
this  masterpiece  to  be  the  most  perfect  example 
extant  of  dream  literature.  And  precisely  be 
cause  of  its  precision  in  details,  its  astounding 
architectonic  and  its  rich-hued  waking  hal 
lucinations. 


THE  FLAUBERT  ANNIVERSARY 

IT  is  a  holy  and  a  wholesome  act  to  visit  the 
grave  of  a  genius,  for  the  memories  there  aroused 
may  serve  as  a  consolation  and  an  inspiration 
in  our  spiritually  arid  existence.  I  often  thought 
of  this  at  Rouen  when  I  went  there  to  visit  the 
tomb  of  Gustave  Flaubert,  so  happily  described 
by  Francois  Coppee  as  The  Beethoven  of  French 
Prose.  A  quarter  of  a  century  ago  I  protested 
in  newspapers  and  books  against  the  tardy 
official  recognition  accorded  one  of  the  great 
prose  masters  of  France  —  which  means  the 
world  —  and  one  of  the  most  marvellous  among 
novelists.  In  the  Solferino  Gardens  at  Rouen 
there  is  the  marble  memorial  by  the  sculptor 
Chapu,  and  on  the  heights  of  the  Monumental 
Cemetery,  in  the  Flaubert  family  plot  —  Flau 
bert's  father  was  a  distinguished  surgeon  —  and 
not  far  from  the  Joan  of  Arc  monument,  lie 
the  remains  of  the  author  of  Madame  Bo  vary. 
His  celebrated  pupil,  Guy  de  Maupassant,  is 
also  remembered  in  the  Solferino  Gardens  by 
a  statue;  another  may  be  seen  in  the  Pare  Mon- 
ceau.  But  at  the  time  I  began  urging  some 
form  of  a  memorial  to  the  master  of  masters 
nothing  had  been  done.  Since  then  the  govern 
ment  has  made  of  the  old  Flaubert  home  at 
Croisset,  a  half-hour  from  Rouen,  down  the 

52 


THE  FLAUBERT  ANNIVERSARY 

Seine,  a  worthy  memorial.  The  house  in  which 
such  masterpieces  as  Madame  Bo  vary,  Sa- 
lammbo,  Sentimental  Education,  The  Tempta 
tion  of  St.  Antony,  Bouvard  and  Pecuchet,  and 
the  Three  Tales  were  created  is  now  a  Flaubert 
museum.  Abbe  Prevost  is  said  to  have  written 
Manon  Lescaut  there.  The  old  house  still 
stands,  though  decaying.  Flaubert's  study  is, 
however,  in  fair  preservation.  The  paternal 
home,  occupying  a  part  of  the  little  park,  was 
a  dismantled  manufactory  when  last  I  saw  the 
place. 

The  faithful  Colange,  for  twenty  years  servi 
tor  in  the  Flaubert  household,  kept  a  cafe  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  was  always  ready  to 
talk  of  his  master,  of  Mme.  Flaubert,  the 
mother.  In  vain  I  tried  to  get  a  photograph 
of  that  lady.  Colange  would  not  sell  it,  would 
not  even  have  it  reproduced.  I  have  seen  the 
picture  of  Dr.  Achille  Flaubert,  but  I  am  mote 
interested  in  the  mothers  of  men  of  genius,  and 
I  can  recall  no  edition  of  the  works  containing 
the  portrait  of  Mme.  Flaubert.  But  I  recall 
her  features.  A  sweet,  mild,  intelligent  face, 
betraying  evidences  of  sorrow  and  resignation. 
The  typical  mother.  Her  son  was  a  celibate, 
and,  with  the  exception  of  Louise  Colet,  he 
never  gave  his  mother  any  worriment  over 
women.  And  it  was  that  lady,  whose  portrait 
was  recently  exhibited  at  the  Courbet  retrospec 
tive  exhibition  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum, 
who  was  the  disturber,  not  Flaubert.  There 

53 


VARIATIONS 

had  been  an  affair,  and  understanding  the  honor 
able  nature  of  the  man,  the  wily  humbug  Louise 
endeavored  to  make  trouble.  She  wrote  Mme. 
Flaubert,  a  deeply  pious  woman;  she  har 
ried  Gustave,  who,  like  most  literary  psy 
chologists  and  sounders  of  feminine  souls,  was 
naive  in  the  practical  conduct  of  his  love-af 
fairs.  The  epitaph  of  Louise  Colet  was  com 
posed  by  Maxime  Ducamp:  "Here  lies  the 
woman  who  compromised  Victor  Cousin,  made 
Alfred  de  Musset  ridiculous,  and  tried  to  as 
sassinate  Alphonse  Karr;  requiescat  in  pace." 
A  mean,  spiteful  masculine  witticism  this, 
though  well  deserved.  Of  Ducamp  a  like 
epitaph  might  be  fabricated:  Hie  jacet  the 
man  who  slandered  Baudelaire,  traduced  his 
loving  friend  Gustave  Flaubert,  and  who  was 
critically  snuffed  out  of  existence  by  Guy  de 
Maupassant. 

I  have  preserved  a  card  sent  to  me  by  Mme. 
Franklin  Grout,  dated  from  Villa  Tanit,  An- 
tibes,  in  which  she  expressed  her  gratitude  for 
several  things  I  wrote  regarding  the  necessity 
of  a  Flaubert  museum  at  Croisset;  also  for  the 
truth  in  the  Ducamp  matter.  Mme.  Grout 
was  the  Caroline  Commanville  of  the  Flaubert 
correspondence,  the  beloved  niece  of  the  mas 
ter,  for  whom  he  sacrificed  his  personal  fortune, 
a  considerable  one  for  a  man  of  letters  forty 
years  ago  (about  one  million  two  hundred 
thousand  francs).  Her  husband,  M.  Comman 
ville,  had  suffered  from  reverses,  and  Flaubert, 

54 


THE  FLAUBERT  ANNIVERSARY 

the  supposed  egoist,  cold-blooded,  self-centred, 
an  epicurean  of  literature,  calmly  deprived 
himself  of  his  last  franc  and,  nearly  sixty  years 
of  age,  went  into  harness.  His  noble  act  was 
accomplished  without  the  flaring  of  trumpets. 
There  were  no  publishers'  " blurbs"  then;  nowa 
days  this  transaction  in  hearts  and  bonds  would 
be  yawped  to  the  thousand  winds  of  publicity; 
luckily,  the  sensitive  great  man  was  spared 
that  vulgar  fate.  After  the  death  of  her  hus 
band,  Caroline  Commanville  remarried;  her 
second  husband  was  the  Dr.  Grout  who  at 
tended  Guy  de  Maupassant  during  his  fatal 
illness  at  the  famous  Maison  Blanche. 

Think  of  it !  I  saw  the  great  Flaubert  in  the 
flesh.  I  may  quote  Browning:  "Ah,  did  you 
once  see  Shelley  plain,  and  did  he  stop  and 
speak  to  you?"  .  .  .  Set  me  down  as  hopelessly 
romantic,  as  a  cultivator  of  the  cult  of  great 
artists  in  an  age  when  there  are  only  imitators 
or  pigmies.  It's  born  in  me,  this  species  of  ar 
tistic  snobbery.  I  can't  help  it.  Every  now 
and  then  some  professorial  rabbit  pokes  its  pink 
snout  from  the  academic  hutch  and  passionately 
pipes,  "Romance  is  the  ruin  of  the  world !"  and 
retires  on  gliding  paws.  After  his  naughty 
proclamation  I  always  take  down  from  the 
shelf  Alice  in  Wonderland  and  read  with  re 
newed  delight  the  conversation  of  the  Mad 
Hatter  and  the  March  Hare.  No  romance  in 
the  world?  Of  that  particular  professorial 
rabbit  Daisy  Ashford  might  say:  Render  unto 

55 


VARIATIONS 

Caesar's  wife  the  things  that  are  suspicious! 
Even  academic  rabbits  are  romantic;  else  their 
breeding  propensities  have  been  enormously 
exaggerated.  Flaubert  is  my  romance. 

Above  all,  Flaubert  was  a  musician,  a  musical 
poet.  His  ear  was  the  final  court  of  appeal, 
and  to  make  sonorous  cadences  in  a  language 
that  lacks  the  essential  richness,  the  diapasonic 
undertow  of  the  English,  is  just  short  of  the 
miraculous.  Until  the  time  of  Chateaubriand 
and  Victor  Hugo  the  French  language  was  less 
a  liquid,  plastic  collocation  of  sounds  than  a 
formal  pattern,  despite  the  clarity  and  precision 
of  the  eighteenth  century;  one  must  go  back  to 
the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  for 
richer,  more  pregnant  speech.  Omnipresent 
with  Flaubert  was  the  musician's  idea  of  com 
posing  a  masterpiece  that  should  float  because 
of  its  sheer  style.  Lyric  verbal  ecstasy  quite 
overpowered  him.  He  was  born  December  21, 
1821.  As  Henry  James  has  said,  he  is  one  of 
the  glories  of  French  literature.  Doubtless 
there  will  be  a  fitting  commemoration  of  his 
one  hundredth  birth  anniversary  two  years 
hence,  and  I  hope  that  America  will  be  repre 
sented  at  Rouen  on  that  occasion. 


ROOSEVELT  AND   BRANDES 

MY  first  meeting  with  Theodore  Roosevelt, 
though  brief,  will  be  ever  memorable  for  me.  I 
was  not  precisely  "summoned"  to  Oyster  Bay 
on  Election  Day  early  in  November,  1915, 
though  I  gladly  accepted  Col.  Roosevelt's  in 
vitation  in  the  light  of  a  "  royal  command,"  and 
went  over  to  Long  Island  in  company  with  John 
Quinn,  who  had  arranged  the  meeting,  and 
Francis  J.  Heney,  once  public  prosecutor  in  San 
Francisco.  I  had  received  several  letters  from 
the  Colonel  of  Colonels,  of  which  I  recall  two 
significant  sentences.  One  ended:  "What  a 
trump  John  Quinn  is!"  The  other  begins:  "I 
have  just  received  your  New  Cosmopolis.  My 
son  Kermit,  whose  special  delight  is  New  York, 
would  probably  appreciate  it  more  than  I  do, 
for  I  am  a  countryman  rather  than  a  man  of 
the  pavements."  Now,  I  had  always  thought 
of  Theodore  Roosevelt  as  a  "man  of  the  pave 
ments,"  notwithstanding  his  delight  in  rough- 
riding  across  Western  prairies.  Personally  I 
found  him  the  reverse  of  either :  a  scholarly  man, 
fond  of  music  and  the  fine  arts  —  he  showed  me 
a  number  of  canvases  by  the  late  Marcius  Sim 
mons,  a  young  American  painter,  who  had  been 
greatly  influenced  by  Turner.  The  colonel  had 
an  excellent  library  of  Colonial  literature,  and 

57 


VARIATIONS 

was  fond  of  digging  out  pregnant  sentences  for 
quotation  in  his  speeches  from  early  preachers 
and  statesmen.  He  appeared  to  be  interested 
in  my  comparison  between  his  prose  style  and 
the  prose  style  of  President  Woodrow  Wilson: 
the  one  swift,  concise,  full  of  affirmations,  strik 
ing  sentences,  and  notable  for  its  absence  of 
glitter.  For  the  colonel  reality  was  greater  than 
rhetoric;  while  the  prose  of  Mr.  Wilson  is  emi 
nently  professorial,  preserving  as  it  does  a  nice 
balance  of  sound  and  sense;  above  all,  "literary" 
prose,  the  prose  of  the  study,  never  dynamic, 
seldom  brilliant;  prose  "standardized,"  eigh 
teenth-century,  smooth,  sinuous,  flexible,  and 
ever-illuding  prose. 

My  distinguished  host  showed  some  of  the 
trophies  he  had  acquired  in  Europe  when  on 
that  historic  grand  tour;  and,  as  I  had  not  visited 
him  in  the  guise  of  a  professional  interviewer,  I 
did  not  write  at  the  time  of  what  I  saw;  but  now 
I  may  do  so  without  violating  the  intimacies  of 
private  hospitality.  One  thing  that  interested 
me  was  a  photograph  of  the  late  Andrew  Car 
negie,  taken  in  Berlin  during  the  military  ma 
noeuvres;  both  Carnegie  and  Roosevelt  had  been 
guests  of  William  Hohenzollern,  then  Kaiser.  I 
told  the  colonel  that  I  had  been  present  at  the 
formal  opening  of  the  Peace  Palace,  in  Septem 
ber,  1913,  at  The  Hague,  and  that  the  day  had 
been  so  hot  that  all  Holland,  there  represented, 
had  fled  to  the  beach  at  Scheveningen,  adding 
that  I  believed  the  palace  eventually  would  be 


ROOSEVELT  AND  BRANDES 

turned  into  the  handsomest  cafe  in  Europe;  and 
I  had  printed  this  prophecy  (?)  in  The  Times 
Sunday  Magazine,  when  reporting  the  solemn 
humbuggery  of  the  peaceful  house-warming. 

War  was  discussed  with  all  the  zest  of  the 
wonderful  man.  One  question  I  permitted  my 
self:  "Colonel,  would  the  Lusitania  have  been 
sunk  if  you  had  been  in  the  White  House?" 
Snapping  his  formidable  jaw,  he  exclaimed: 
"  There  would  have  been  no  Lusitania  incident 
if  I  had  been  President." 

Among  other  various  topics  the  colonel  des 
canted  on  the  poetical  merits  of  George  Cabot 
Lodge,  son  of  Senator  Henry  Cabot  Lodge,  who 
died  in  the  very  harvest  time  of  his  genius.  In 
his  introduction  to  the  two  volumes  of  Poems 
and  Dramas,  Theodore  Roosevelt  has  never 
written  with  such  a  happy  mingling  of  perspi 
cacity  and  tempered  enthusiasm.  Among  the 
younger  American  poets  I  find  Lodge  of  impor 
tance,  not  along  because  of  his  potential  promise, 
but  because  of  his  actual  performance.  An  au 
thentic  poet,  his  versatility  is  marked.  In  his 
sonnets  and  lyrics  he  paid  the  admiring  tribute 
of  youth  to  Milton,  Wordsworth,  Tennyson, 
Browning,  Meredith,  and  Swinburne.  He  could 
mimic  Walt  Whitman,  who  is  fatally  easy  to 
parody,  and  he  early  succumbed  to  Schopen 
hauer  and  Baudelaire.  In  at  least  one  of  his 
dramas  I  found  the  cosmic  ecstasy  of  Nietzsche; 
also  the  doctrine  of  the  Eternal  Return.  But 
young  Lodge  had  assimilated  a  half  dozen  cul- 

59 


VARIATIONS 

tures,  and  passed  far  out  to  sea  the  perilous  rocks 
of  imitation,  upon  which  so  many  lesser  talents 
have  come  to  grief.  When  as  an  achievement 
we  consider  his  Herakles  we  are  amazed  at  its 
maturity  of  thought  and  technical  finish.  The 
poet,  the  Maker,  confronts  us,  and  in  reclo thing 
the  antique  and  tragic  myth  with  his  own  lovely 
language  he  is,  nevertheless,  a  "  modern."  I 
know  few  poets  of  the  new  school  who  may 
boast  this  sense  of  the  vital  present,  added  to  a 
divination  and  an  evocation  of  "old,  unhappy 
far-off  things  and  battles  long  ago."  His  figures 
are  not  fashioned  by  academic  black  magic,  but 
are  vital  beings,  loving,  trusting,  suffering,  and 
in  conflict  with  ineluctable  destiny.  He  had  the 
lyric  art,  also  the  architectural.  He  was  a  singer 
and  a  builder  of  the  lofty  rhyme.  His  handling 
of  complex  forms  and  abstruse  rhymes  was  re 
markable.  George  Cabot  Lodge  possessed  both 
voice  and  vision.  His  life,  by  Henry  Adams, 
shows  him  to  have  been  a  young  man  beloved  by 
his  friends,  among  whom  were  Jonathan  Stick- 
ney  Trumbull,  Langdon  Mitchell,  and  the  late 
Sir  Cecil  Spring-Rice.  When  I  met  him  in  Paris 
he  was  a  student  at  the  Sorbonne.  It  was  about 
1896.  A  charming  youth.  I  may  only  add 
now  my  humble  mite  of  admiration  to  the  manes 
of  this  dead  genius. 

When  I  saw  Dr.  Georg  Brandes  at  the  Hotel 
Astor  a  few  months  before  the  outbreak  of  the 
Great  War  I  told  him  that  he  resembled  the  bust 
60 


ROOSEVELT  AND  BRANDES 

made  of  him  by  Klinger.  It  was  the  first  time 
I  had  talked  to  the  celebrated  Danish  author,  to 
whom  I  had  dedicated  Egoists.  Then  past 
seventy,  as  active  as  a  young  man,  I  could  see 
no  reason  why  he  shouldn't  live  to  be  a  cente 
narian.  An  active  brain  is  lodged  in  his  nimble 
body.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  him  no 
questions  about  America.  I  found  him  in  a 
rage  over  the  way  he  was  misquoted  by  some  of 
the  interviewers.  It  should  be  remembered  that 
primarily  he  is  a  cosmopolitan  thinker.  He 
writes  in  English,  French,  German,  and  Danish 
with  equal  ease.  As  to  the  provinciality  of  our 
country's  literature  and  the  seven  arts  he  has 
definite  opinions;  but  he  was  polite  enough  not 
to  rub  them  in  on  me.  He  was  accused  of  find 
ing  his  favorite  reading  in  the  "works"  of  Jack 
London !  That  idea  amused  him.  Among  our 
"moderns"  it  is  Frank  Norris  he  likes;  a  slight 
difference,  indeed.  Emerson,  Poe,  Whitman  in 
terested  him,  though  not  as  iconoclasts  or  path 
finders.  The  originality  of  this  trinity  he  didn't 
dwell  upon;  made-over  Europeans,  he  called 
them;  Emerson  and  German  transcendental 
philosophy;  Poe  and  E.  T.  W.  Hoffmann;  Whit 
man  and  Ossian  —  Walt's  rugged  speech  is  a 
windy  parody  of  MacPherson's,  and  Ossian  him 
self*  is  a  windy  parody  of  the  Old  Testament 
style. 

Brandes  is  an  iconoclast,  a  radical,  a  non 
conformist  born,  and  more  often  a  No-Sayer 
than  a  Yes-Sayer.    The  many-headed  monster 
61 


VARIATIONS 

has  no  message  for  him.  As  he  was  the  first 
European  critic  to  give  us  true  pictures  of  Ibsen 
and  Nietzsche,  I  led  him  to  speak  of  the  poet- 
philosopher.  At  Baireuth,  where  I  had  gone  to 
hear  the  Wagner  music-drama  at  its  fountain- 
head  —  and  very  muddy  was  the  music-making, 
I  am  sorry  to  say  —  I  was  shown  the  house 
where  was  born  Max  Stirner.  My  friend  said: 
"When  the  very  name  of  Richard  Wagner  is 
forgotten,  S timer's  will  be  in  the  mouth  of  the 
world."  Of  course,  this  sounded  improbable. 
I  know  S timer's  book,  The  Ego  and  Its  Own, 
knew  his  real  name,  Johann  Kaspar  Schmidt, 
and  that  he  had  been  a  poor,  half -starved  school 
master  in  Berlin,  and,  in  1845,  imprisoned  by  the 
Prussian  Government.  This  intellectual  anarch 
—  rather  call  him  nihilist,  for,  compared  with 
his  nihilism,  Bakunin's  is  only  revolutionary  re 
sistance  —  was  to  become  later  the  most  power 
ful  disrupting  force  in  Europe !  I  couldn't  be 
lieve  it.  But  now  I  recall  my  friend's  prophecy 
when  I  read  of  the  doings  of  the  Russian  Bol- 
sheviki.  Not  Nietzsche,  but  Stirner,  has  been 
the  real  motor  force  in  the  contemporary  revo 
lution.  No  half-way  house  of  socialism  for  the 
Reds !  And  that  is  the  lesson  of  Artzibachev's 
Sanine,  the  import  of  which  the  majority  of 
critics  missed,  partially  because  of  the  imperfect 
English  translation  —  many  suppressions  —  and 
also  because  they  missed  the  significance  of  the 
new  man,  who,  while  continuing  the  realistic 
tradition  of  Dostoievsky  and  Tolstoy,  was  di- 
62 


ROOSEVELT  AND   BRANDES 

ametrically  opposed  to  their  sentimental  Brother 
hood  of  Man  —  toujours  that  old  fallacy  of 
Rousseau !  —  and  preached  the  fiercest  individ 
ualism,  violently  repudiating  Nietzsche  and  his 
aristocratic  individualism.  It  may  be  said  in 
passing  that  a  reaction  to  individualism  is  bound 
to  come;  the  lesson  of  the  war  will  not  be  lost. 
Nor  the  teaching  of  Emerson.  After  the  present 
overt  suppression  of  the  individual,  the  pen 
dulum  will  surely  swing  from  tyrannical  social 
ism  to  the  greater  freedom  of  the  individual. 
And  it  can't  come  quickly  enough  here  in 
America. 

Dr.  Brandes  sets  more  store  by  Nietzsche 
than  S timer;  he  was  the  first  to  call  Nietzsche 
a  "radical  aristocrat."  We  switched  to  the 
theme  of  Strindberg.  Brandes  said:  "Yes,  he 
was  mad.  Once  he  visited  me  and  told  me  of  a 
call  he  had  made  at  a  lunatic  asylum  near 
Stockholm.  He  rang  the  bell  and  asked  the 
physician  if  he  —  Strindberg,  the  greatest  of 
dramatists  —  was  crazy;  to  which  the  doctor 
replied:  'My  dear  Mr.  Strindberg,  if  you  will 
only  consent  to  stay  with  me  six  weeks  and  talk 
with  me  every  day,  I  promise  to  answer  your 
question.' "  After  that  Brandes  had  no  doubts 
on  the  question.  Brandes  is  not  only  the  dis 
coverer  of  Ibsen,  Nietzsche,  and  Strindberg,  but 
he  himself  is  a  revaluer  of  old  valuations. 
Therein  lies  his  significance  for  this  generation. 
In  1888  he  wrote  to  Nietzsche:  "I  have  been  the 
best  hated  man  in  the  north  for  the  last  four 

63 


VARIATIONS 

years.  The  newspapers  rave  against  me  every 
day,  especially  since  my  long  feud  with  Bjornson, 
in  which  all  the  ' moral'  German  newspapers 
take  sides  against  me."  .  .  .  To-day  he  is  re 
garded  as  a  reactionary  by  the  Reds.  The  affec 
tions  of  Brandes  have  always  been  bestowed 
upon  the  literatures  of  England  and  France. 
Of  his  Main  Currents,  Maurice  Bigeon  has  said 
that  Brandes  did  for  the  nineteenth  century 
what  Sainte-Beuve  did  for  the  seventeenth  cen 
tury  in  his  History  of  Port  Royal.  What  is  vital, 
what  makes  for  progress,  what  has  lasting  influ 
ence  in  social  life?  asks  the  Dane  in  his  Main 
Currents.  He  will  remain  the  archetype  of 
cosmopolitan  critics  for  future  generations.  A 
humanist,  the  mind  of  Brandes  is  steel-colored. 
Ductile,  when  white-hot,  it  flows  like  lava  from 
a  volcano  in  eruption;  but  always  is  it  steel, 
whether  liquefied  or  rigid.  Pre-eminently  it  is 
the  fighting  mind.  He  objects  to  being  de 
scribed  as  "  brilliant."  The  model  of  Brandes 
as  a  portrait-painter  of  ideas  and  individuals  is 
Velasquez,  because  "Velasquez  is  not  brilliant, 
but  true." 

Yet  he  is  brilliant  and  lucid,  and  steel-like, 
whether  writing  of  Shakespeare  or  Lassalle. 
An  ardent  upholder  of  Taine  and  the  psychology 
of  race,  he  contends  that  in  the  individual,  not 
in  the  people,  lies  the  only  hope  for  progress. 
He  is  altogether  for  the  psychology  of  the  indi 
vidual.  Like  Carlyle,  he  has  the  cult  of  the 
great  man.  The  fundamental  question  is  — 

64 


ROOSEVELT  AND   BRANDES 

can  the  well-being  of  the  race,  which  is  the  end 
of  all  effort,  be  attained  without  great  men? 
"I  say  no,  and  again,  no!"  he  cries.  He  is  a 
firm  believer  in  the  axiom  that  every  tub  should 
stand  on  its  own  bottom;  and  in  our  earthly 
pasture,  where  the  sheep  think,  act,  or  vote  to 
order,  the  lesson  of  Brandes  is  "writ  clear":  To 
myself  be  true !  that  truth  set  forth  with  double 
facets  by  Ibsen  in  Peer  Gynt  and  Brand.  Also 
by  Emerson.  Beware  of  the  Bogy  —  the  cow 
ardly  spirit  of  compromise,  with  its  sneaking 
prudent  advice;  Go  around!  For  mobs  and 
mob-made  laws  Georg  Brandes  has  a  mighty 
hatred.  He,  too,  is  a  radical  aristocrat  whose 
motto  might  be:  Blessed  are  the  proud  of  spirit, 
for  they  shall  inherit  the  Kingdom  of  Earth! 
With  his  Hebraic  irony  he  stung  to  the  quick 
the  spiritual  sloth  of  Denmark.  His  life  was 
made  unpleasant  at  the  Copenhagen  University; 
but  he  had  behind  him  the  younger  generation. 
He  knew  that  to  write  for  the  intrenched  and 
prejudiced  class  would  be  a  waste  of  ink.  He 
exploded  his  verbal  bombs  beneath  the  national 
ark  and  blew  sky-high  stale  and  false  ideals. 
He  became  a  national  figure  after  he  had  been 
recognized  as  a  world  critic.  Not  the  polished 
writer  that  was  Sainte-Beuve,  not  the  possessor 
of  a  synthetic  intellect  like  Hippolyte  Taine's, 
Brandes  is  the  broadest-minded  man  of  the  three, 
and  upon  his  shoulders  their  critical  mantles 
have  fallen.  Agitated  as  he  was  by  the  war  — 
his  letters  to  me  were  full  of  references  to  it  - 

65 


VARIATIONS 

he  was  philosopher  enough  to  plunge  into  the 
profoundest  work.  He  has  finished  two  studies 
on  such  divergent  themes  as  Goethe  and  Vol 
taire.  Let  us  hope  both  books  be  given  an  Eng 
lish  garb  and  speedy  publication. 


66 


PENNELL  TALKS  ABOUT  ETCHING 

WHEN  an  etcher  of  Joseph  Pennell's  caliber 
talks  about  his  art  it  behooves  both  critic  and 
public  to  sit  up  and  listen.  Mr.  Pennell  is  en 
dowed  with  a  special  gift  for  making  people  sit 
up.  He  loves  to  startle.  He  is  occasionally 
choleric,  he  indulges  in  righteous  indignation 
over  the  blindness  of  critics  and  fumes  betimes 
because  of  the  indifference  of  the  world  at  large 
concerning  the  finer  shades  of  art.  Nevertheless, 
he  always  says  something  pertinent,  even  when 
it  runs  contrary  to  popular  opinion,  or  sneers  at 
critical  canons.  He  is  well  within  his  rights  as 
an  artist  to  attack  professional  critics,  for  critics 
and  their  criticism  are  a  perpetual  nuisance  —  an 
incontrovertible  statement  that  will,  we  are 
sure,  be  smilingly  indorsed  by  the  majority  of 
the  pesky  critters.  In  his  newly  published  and 
magnificently  illustrated  Etchers  and  Etching, 
Mr.  Pennell  has  rendered  a  genuine  service  to 
students  and  amateurs,  for  not  only  does  he  re 
veal  the  secrets  of  his  prison  house,  but  he  also 
reveals  with  a  frankness  that  is  fascinating  his 
opinions  of  other  etchers  as  compared  with  his 
god,  Whistler,  and  incidentally  tells  his  readers 
that  if  they  do  not  agree  with  him  they  are  un 
varnished  damphools ! 


VARIATIONS 

Bully  old  Joe !  He  is  the  joy  of  honest  re 
viewers  and  the  terror  of  them  that  are  not 
firmly  grounded  in  their  artistic  technique. 
Herein  he  puts  himself  through  all  his  familiar 
paces.  Of  all  the  graphic  arts,  etching  is  the 
most  superior!  Of  all  etchers,  living  or  dead, 
James  McNeill  Whistler  is  the  greatest !  From 
this  supreme  judgment  there  is  no  appeal.  And 
the  curious  part  is  that  Mr.  Pennell  gives  you 
chapter  and  verse  to  back  up  his  argument.  In 
all  that  pertained  to  the  delicate  and  difficult 
art  of  etching,  Whistler  was  the  master.  Not 
Rembrandt,  who  was  careless  as  to  the  printing 
of  his  plates,  careless  as  to  finesse,  and  not  given 
to  slicking  up  his  work;  not  Meryon,  who  was, 
according  to  Pennell,  an  indifferent  etcher,  and 
no  artist — should  be  mentioned  in  company  with 
the  peerless  Whistler.  There  is  but  one  Allah 
in  etching,  and  Pennell  is  his  prophet.  Salaam 
alaiekum!  Rembrandt  and  Whistler?  The 
Apocalypse  and  the  Butterfly ! 

There  is  no  denying  the  enthusiasm  of  an  ex 
pert.  And  there  is  no  denial  of  the  proposition 
that  a  little  knowledge  is  a  dangerous  thing  in 
etching  as  in  criticism.  Yet  there  is  something 
to  be  said  for  the  much-abused  critics.  Artists 
who  discuss  their  art  are  sometimes  biassed,  to 
put  it  mildly.  The  principal  critical  pronounce 
ments  that  have  endured  were  not  made  by  pro 
fessionals;  on  the  contrary,  such  writers  as 
Wincklemann,  Goethe,  Diderot,  Blanc,  Gau- 
tier,  Baudelaire  —  especially  Baudelaire  —  Zola 
68 


PENNELL  TALKS  ABOUT  ETCHING 

(rather  negligible),  Goncourt,  Roger  Marx, 
Geoffrey,  Huysmans,  Mauclair,  Charles  Morice, 
Octave  Mirbeau,  R.  A.  M.  Stevenson,  George 
Moore,  D.  S.  MacColl,  Lionel  Cust,  Colvin, 
Ricci,  Sturge  Moore,  Bernhard  Berenson,  John 
Van  Dyke,  W.  C.  Brownell,  Royal  Cortissoz,  and 
others,  have  contributed  more  to  the  right  un 
derstanding  of  the  plastic  arts  than  any  opposing 
list  of  painters,  sculptors  and  engravers  you  may 
assemble.  Sift  names  and  opinions,  and  for 
one  Fromentin,  one  Whistler,  one  Reynolds,  you 
will  find  a  hundred  writers  who,  non-professional 
as  they  were  and  are,  have  considerably  added 
to  our  enlightenment  in  matters  artistic. 

Not  all  critics  are  "men  who  have  failed  in 
literature  and  art,"  as  Balzac  said.  The  tech 
niques  of  the  various  arts  are,  naturally  enough, 
best  known  to  the  practitioners  thereof.  Yet 
Curator  Frank  Weitenkampf  of  our  Public  Li 
brary  has  written  one  of  the  most  valuable  books 
in  the  arts  graphic,  How  to  Appreciate  Prints. 
Its  union  of  technical  insight  and  catholicity  of 
judgment  has  been  justly  praised  by  all  discern 
ing  etchers.  The  Discourses  of  Sir  Joshua  are, 
take  them  by  and  large,  the  best  of  their  kind 
because  most  temperate.  What  wouldn't  we 
give  for  the  critical  writings  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  whose  prose,  what  we  have  of  it,  proves 
him  a  master.  Vasari  is  an  immortal  gossip. 
William  Blake  was  narrow  in  his  outlook. 
Fancy  ruling  out  from  court  the  pictures  of 
Rubens !  Degas  was  a  wit  who  abominated  art 


VARIATIONS 

critics  more  than  Mr.  Pennell.  He  abused 
Huysmans,  the  first  to  make  public  his  rare 
genius.  Millet,  Rousseau,  Constable  said  in 
teresting  things  of  their  art,  of  their  contem 
poraries.  "There  is  no  isolated  truth,"  de 
clared  Millet.  "A  good  thing  is  never  done 
twice,"  wrote  Constable;  or  Alfred  Stevens's 
definition  of  art  as  "nature  seen  through  the 
prism  of  an  emotion,"  which  epigram  evidently 
Zola  remembered  in  his  Experimental  Novel. 
Rodin  has  also  uttered  much  wisdom.  Fromen- 
tin's  studies  of  Dutch  masters  is  a  standard  book, 
although  he  missed  Vermeer  —  probably  because 
the  work  of  that  master  of  masters  was  attrib 
uted  to  other  men,  notably  to  Terburg. 

Ruskin  did  much  to  muddle  public  opinion 
with  his  intemperate  praise  of  Turner  and  his 
purblind  estimate  of  Whistler.  Who  shall  deny 
that  he  was  a  force  making  for  good?  Walter 
Pater  painted  with  words,  not  only  making  beau 
tiful  phrases  but  memorable  criticism.  Philip 
Gilbert  Hamerton  often  blundered,  and  Pennell 
impales  him,  also  abundantly  quotes  from  him. 
The  written  and  reported  words  of  artists  are 
alike  precious  to  layman  and  critic.  That  the 
artist,  Mr.  Pennell  for  example,  prefers  etching 
to  writing  is  natural;  so  might  the  critic  if  he  had 
the  pictorial  gift.  Art  is  art,  not  nature;  and 
criticism  is  criticism,  not  always  art.  It  pro 
fesses  to  interpret  the  artist's  work,  and  at  best 
it  mirrors  his  art  unavoidably  intermingled  with 
the  personal  temperament  of  the  critic.  At  the 
70 


PENNELL  TALKS  ABOUT  ETCHING 

worst,  the  critic  lacks  temperament,  and  when 
this  is  the  case  Heaven  help  artist  and  public ! 
Walter  Raleigh  sums  up  the  question  in  a  sen 
tence:  "Criticism,  after  all,  is  not  to  legislate  nor 
to  classify,  but  to  raise  the  dead."  The  magical 
art  of  evocation !  Few  critics  possess  the  gift, 
but,  then,  fewer  are  the  artists  who  boast  it. 

That  painters  —  or  etchers  —  can  get  along 
without  professional  criticism  we  know  from 
history,  but  that  they  themselves  play  the  critic 
successfully  is  open  to  doubt.  And  are  they  any 
fairer  to  younger  talent  than  official  criticism? 
It  is  an  inquiry  that  should  be  fraught  with  sig 
nificance  for  professionals.  Artists,  great  and 
various,  have  sent  forth  their  pupils  into  the 
world.  As  befits  honest  criticism,  have  they  at 
all  recognized  the  pupils  of  other  men;  played 
fair  with  those  whose  practice  and  theory  were 
at  the  opposite  pole  to  their  own?  The  answer 
is  a  decided  negative;  the  examples  that  might 
be  adduced,  legion.  Recall  what  Velasquez  said 
to  Salvator  Rosa,  according  to  Carl  Justi.  Sal- 
vator  had  asked  the  incomparable  Spaniard 
whether  he  did  not  think  Raphael  the  best  of  all 
the  painters  he  had  seen  in  Italy.  Velasquez 
answered:  "To  be  plain  with  you,  Raphael  does 
not  please  me  at  all."  In  art  criticism  a  Robert 
Schumann  is  yet  to  appear;  and  notwithstanding 
his  catholicity  in  taste,  Schumann  missed  Wag 
ner,  as  did  Berlioz.  Perhaps  Stendhal  saw  the 
weakness  in  such  criticisms  when  he  remarked: 
"Difference  engenders  hatred." 


VARIATIONS 

To  leave  historical  generalities  for  the  par 
ticulars  of  contemporary  criticism,  let  us  open  a 
book  that  has  recently  appeared,  entitled  De 
David  a  Degas,  by  Jacques-Emile  Blanche, 
famous  portraitist,  charming  causeur,  brilliant 
penman,  sympathetic  and  sometimes  caustic 
critic.  M.  Blanche,  a  painter  by  "the  grace  of 
God,"  for  his  talents  are  many,  considers  such 
diverse  artists  as  Ingres,  Manet,  Renoir,  Ce 
zanne,  Fantin-Latour  —  a  notably  fine  estimate 
—  Degas  —  one  of  the  best  essays  —  Aubrey 
Beardsley  —  a  masterly  miniature  of  a  marvel 
lous  draftsman  —  and  the  redoubtable  Whistler. 
On  page  35  M.  Blanche  writes  of  the  etchings 
and  lithographs  of  the  American  artists,  that  they 
were  not  worthy  of  their  reputation;  that  the 
Paris  series  frankly  lean  on  Meryon,  recall  his 
work;  others  are  freer,  occasionally  pretty, 
though  weak,  without  character  in  their  pictur 
esque  quality  of  vignette,  a  genre  wherein  later 
Mariano  Fortuny  excelled !  We  are  here  far  from 
Pennell's  dictum  that  Whistler  is  the  greatest 
etcher  that  ever  lived.  What  does  Jacques 
Blanche  know  about  etching?  probably  will  be 
his  comment  if  he  reads  the  critique  in  question. 

And  we  should  quite  agree  with  the  etcher  if 
he  should  make  some  remark;  such  one-sided 
verdict,  despite  the  fact  that  M.  Blanche  is  to 
be  listened  to  with  respect  when  he  talks  of  art 
and  artists  deserves  rebuke !  It  again  confirms 
the  attitude  attributed  to  George  Saintsbury 
that  all  discussion  of  contemporaries  is  convex 
72 


PENNELL  TALKS  ABOUT  ETCHING 

sation,  not  criticism.  Mr.  Pennell,  who  also 
slaughters  the  reputations  of  the  living  and  dead, 
might  put  this  witticism  in  his  pipe  and  smoke 
up.  The  late  William  M.  Laffan,  a  practical 
etcher,  one  who  etched  for  his  bread  and  butter, 
as  he  assured  us,  wrote  in  the  Sun  newspaper,  of 
which  he  was  the  proprietor  at  the  time  of  Whis 
tler's  death,  that  the  plates  of  the  etcher  Whistler 
would  outlive  Whistler  the  painter.  Mr.  Laffan, 
who  possessed  a  flair  for  criticism,  prophesied 
aright.  He  said  too  that  there  were  no  such 
things  as  replicas,  which  is  the  truth.  Many 
Whistler  canvases  are  sadly  deteriorating,  critical 
enthusiasm  concerning  them  is  cooling  —  the 
artist  Whistler  is  now  seen  not  to  be  an  isolated 
apparition  but  a  synthesis  of  his  own  enthralling 
self,  based  on  the  art  of  Courbet,  Fantin,  Albert 
Moore,  the  Japanese  and  the  inevitable  Velas 
quez;  but  the  etchings  and  lithographs  of  this 
truly  versatile  genius,  being  things  of  beauty, 
will  be  a  joy  forever.  They  are  his  legacy  to  the 
elect.  And  yet,  must  the  "grand  manner"  of 
line-engravings  irretrievably  vanish  to  make 
place  for  the  sketchy,  fussy  etching? 

Not  only  is  Brother  Pennell  —  a  brother  to 
dragons !  —  narrow  in  his  estimates  of  all  the 
great  etchers,  but  he  is  unjust  to  workers  in 
other  black-and-white  mediums.  Old-fashioned 
line-engraving  is  mechanical,  and  was  so  tedious 
to  execute  that  the  process  was  abandoned  for 
still  more  mechanical  though  simpler  methods. 
Not,  however,  till  the  patient  engravers  had  be- 

73 


VARIATIONS 

queathed  to  art  a  gallery  of  stately  portraits  and 
landscapes,  minutely,  if  somewhat  elaborately, 
recorded.  Etching,  be  it  never  so  fine,  so  per 
sonal,  cannot  compete  with  the  masters  of  line, 
because  etching  lacks  depth  and  substance.  It 
is  improvisation  at  the  best;  at  its  worst  it  is 
almost  feline  in  its  scratchings.  Mezzotint,  too, 
is  a  noble  art.  It  is  often  smudgy,  to  be  sure, 
but  it  has  tonal  splendor,  which  etching  has  not, 
despite  the  magical  suggestion  of  tone  in  the 
Whistler  plates.  After  reading  Mr.  Pennell's 
exposition  of  the  pains  and  perils  consequent 
upon  the  production  of  a  perfect  etching,  the 
finished  plates  of  Marc  Antonio,  Richard  Earlom 
or  Masson's  gray-haired  man,  do  not  seem  a 
whit  more  mechanical.  There  are  tricks  in  all 
trades.  Whistler's  supremacy  did  not  alone 
consist  in  his  virtuosity  with  the  needle,  but  in 
his  personality  as  poet  and  mystic.  Rembrandt 
was  greater  artist  than  etcher;  in  his  days  the 
manipulation  of  material  was  not  so  consum 
mate  as  during  the  Wliistlerian  epoch,  yet  he  is 
by  all  odds  the  bigger  man.  A  rude  scratch  of 
his  and  you  see  the  glories  of  heaven,  the  gloom 
of  hell.  There  is  a  fulness,  a  richness,  a  solidity, 
an  architectural  quality  in  Meryon  missing  in 
Whistler,  Pennell  to  the  contrary  notwithstand 
ing.  In  the  evocation  of  the  intangible,  the 
evanescent,  of  the  exquisite,  Whistler  has  never 
had  a  rival,  and  as  a  technician  he  is  foremost; 
but  George  Moore  was  not  far  astray  when  he 
said  that  if  "Jemmy"  had  been  fifty  pounds 

74 


PENNELL  TALKS  ABOUT  ETCHING 

heavier  he  might  have  painted  like  Velasquez. 
In  the  last  analysis  his  work  lacks  weight,  sub 
stance,  virile  power,  though  not  imagination, 
and  that  quintessential  quality  is  worth  a  wil 
derness  of  beefy,  brilliant,  magisterial  canvases. 

All  this  is  beside  the  mark,  which  is  the  su 
perb  Pennell  volume.  Agree  with  him  or  not, 
he  writes  with  vigor,  demolishing  shams  and 
humbuggery,  and  his  words,  if  often  intem 
perate,  are  prompted  by  burning  sincerity.  He 
is  never  smug  nor  self-satisfied.  He  sees  through 
the  hole  in  our  national  millstone  of  art.  His 
ideal  is  the  linear,  and  at  a  time  when  sloppy 
drawing,  barbarous  color  and  grotesque  com 
position  have  become  our  shibboleth,  his  warn 
ings  are  salutary.  His  is  the  cult  of  beauty  for 
beauty's  sake,  the  only  culture  in  art.  Etching 
to  him  is  the  still  small  voice  of  an  art  abused  by 
amateurs,  too  often  tortured  by  artists  (you 
think  of  the  big  plates  of  Frank  Brangwyn). 
He  is  fair  to  the  Bohemian,  Wenzel  Hollar,  who, 
to  be  seen  at  his  best,  one  must  go  to  Prague, 
to  the  Hollareum,  there  in  the  Rudolphinum, 
where  his  amazing  work  may  be  studied  in  its 
entirety. 

Mr.  Pennell  pays  a  rather  grudging  tribute  to 
Seymour  Haden,  while  admitting  the  beauty  of 
his  plate,  Sunset  in  Ireland,  and  he  warmed  the 
cockles  of  our  heart  by  his  discriminating  praise 
of  the  splendid  etcher  that  was  Felicien  Rops. 
At  the  conclusion  he  peremptorily  exclaims:  "I 
know  of  no  other  great  etchers."  Oh,  yes,  you 

75 


VARIATIONS 

do,  Joseph  Pennell!  You  are  too  modest  by 
half.  Demme,  sir,  as  old  Joseph  Bagstock  would 
say,  old  Joey  B.,  begad,  sir,  you  know  a  chap 
named  Pennell  who  sometimes  etches  like  an 
angel.  And  also  lithographs.  We'll  eat  our 
hat  if  his  scraped  mezzotint,  Wrens'  City,  isn't 
a  beautiful  plate ! 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PRINTS 

(TO  JOSEPH  PENNELL) 

THE  gallery  is  rather  narrow,  but  long  and 
lofty;  the  light  is  diffused  and  gentle.  A  tiny 
staircase  leads  to  mysterious  retreats  where, 
Piranesi-like,  may  be  descried  other  galleries, 
though  not  peopled  by  the  prisoners  of  the 
fantastic  Italian  etcher.  A  familiar  voice  wel 
comes  the  visitor  who,  weary  of  the  monotonous 
mobs  on  the  avenue,  finds  here  a  haven  where, 
surrounded  by  the  ingratiating  arts  of  black- 
and-white  —  mezzotinting,  etching,  lithograph 
and  line-engraving  —  he  may  soothe  his  soul 
and  rest  his  bones.  The  color-scheme  is  har 
monious.  A  dark  panelling,  and  for  the  smaller 
galleries  a  more  cheerful  though  neutral  tone, 
is  observed.  Moving  slowly  about  he  sees  some 
black  spots  on  the  wall;  at  close  range  they 
resolve  themselves  into  ingenious  patterns. 
Stacked  in  portfolios  are  prints.  On  large  tables 
more  of  them  sprawl.  In  the  rear  room  there 
is,  perhaps,  an  exhibition  of  etchings  or  mezzo 
tints,  but  seldom  of  line-engravings.  A  young 
Scotsman  shows  his  mettle  —  the  Scotch  take 
to  the  needle  as  ducks  do  to  grass.  Why  are 
line-engravings  never  hung  nowadays?  You 
are  told  that  taste  has  changed  since  the  golden 
age  of  engraving  ruled  our  walls.  And  changed 
for  the  worse,  thinks  the  fanatic  of  pure  line. 

77 


VARIATIONS 

Yonder,  above  a  huge  bin,  in  which  are  stored 
rare  prints,  hangs  the  Moses  of  Philippe  de 
Champaigne,  engraved  by  Edelinck.  It  is  a 
largely  moulded  composition.  The  Hebrew  law 
giver,  on  whose  noble  features  linger  the  reflec 
tions  of  Jehovah's  divine  illumination,  the  horns 
of  light  emanating  from  Mount  Sinai,  holds 
the  rod  in  one  hand,  supporting  with  the  other 
the  table  of  the  laws.  A  picture  in  the  grand 
manner.  Therefore,  to  be  passed  by  in  favor  of 
some  cryptic  scratches  on  a  small  plate,  a  signed 
proof  by  an  artistic  nobody,  who  designs  and 
etches  in  a  mediocre  fashion.  Yet  his  work  is 
eagerly  snapped  up,  while  the  rhythmic  line  of 
Edelinck  is  not  even  looked  at,  rich  as  it  is 
as  an  interpretation  or  artistic  performance. 
"  Engraving  is  so  mechanical,  don't  you  think 
so ! "  is  the  usual  reason  advanced  for  the  neg 
lect  of  this  branch  of  black-and-white.  But, 
by  the  same  token,  no  more  mechanical  than 
the  myriads  of  fussy  little  plates  of  the  etchers, 
for  the  most  part  without  distinction  in  style 
or  technique.  Nevertheless,  etching  is  a  swifter 
method  for  registering  illusion,  and  in  all  the 
arts  —  George  Moore  says  there  are  nine,  not 
seven  —  the  chief  thing  is  to  create  illusion. 

Etching  rules.  Why?  Because  an  artist  of 
overwhelming  genius  set  upon  the  art  his  seal. 
Because  it  is  a  consurnmate  medium  for  ex 
pressing  personality,  and  in  all  the  arts  person 
ality  is  the  slogan  of  the  hour.  We  must  bare 
our  souls  in  our  work,  cry  young  folk;  the  rest, 

78 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PRINTS 

art  included,  can  go  hang!  But  the  question 
is  whether  these  same  souls  are  worth  the  bother 
of  such  exposure.  When  Rembrandt  or  Meryon, 
Whistler,  or  Pennell  exhibited  their  personali 
ties  on  their  plates  the  result  was:  primo,  art; 
secundo,  personalities.  In  a  word,  not  even 
the  perky,  cantankerous  side  of  Whistler  in 
tervened  between  his  art  and  his  public;  the 
nobler  phases  of  his  character,  and  there  were 
many,  shone  clear  and  truthfully.  The  mas 
sive  bulk  of  Rembrandt's  personality  is  reflected 
in  his  work  with  the  needle;  yet  what  magnifi 
cent  art  is  his !  Also  a  dangerous  beacon  in  a 
stormy  sea  for  lesser  etchers.  We  love  etching. 
It  is  the  most  concise  and  delicate  of  all  artistic 
stenography.  The  scratched  line,  its  symbol, 
is  less  complex  than  the  convention  of  the  so- 
called  "steel"  engraver,  who  works  in  a  denser, 
richer  medium,  despite  the  allegation  that  his 
is  a  chilly  art.  So  is  sculpture  chilly.  All  de 
pends  on  the  man  handling  the  chisel,  or  in 
engraving  the  wielder  of  the  burin.  The  richest 
of  the  mediums  is  copper  mezzotinted,  or 
scraped  plate.  It  sometimes  gives  muddy  re 
sults.  Etching  has  more  personal  charm;  line- 
engraving  is  chaster,  loftier  in  style,  because 
more  objective. 

If  a  certain  formal  rigidity  or  hardness  may 
be  urged  against  the  less  personal  art  of  line- 
engraving,  what  cannot  be  said  of  the  thin, 
facile,  shallow  impressionism  of  the  etched 
plate?  Above  all  else,  structure  is  lacking,  and 

79 


VARIATIONS 

it  is  too  often  a  vehicle  for  piffling  anecdote, 
or  the  stamping-ground  of  the  superficial  dauber. 
Mezzotint  is  not  always  a  satisfactory  means  of 
expression.  It  too  is  mainly  reproductive,  while 
its  seductive,  velvety  surfaces  may  easily  de 
generate  into  monotonous  formulas.  Between 
Valentine  Green  and  his  interpretations  of  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  or  Richard  Earlom's  evoca 
tion  of  an  incandescent  forge,  and  the  apoca 
lyptic  visions  of  a  John  Martin,  there  is  the 
wide  and  ineluctable  gulf  of  technical  mastery. 
Martin  may  have  been  half-mad,  like  William 
Blake  —  as  are  most  mystics  viewed  in  the 
cold  light  of  worldly  reason  —  but  he  possessed 
vision;  while  Green  and  Earlom,  accomplished 
copper-scrapers  as  they  were,  only  saw  the 
superficies  of  things  eternal.  To-day  John  Mar 
tin's  crude  prints  may  be  had  for  a  penny,  and 
the  fantastic  Piranesi  is  a  drug  in  the  shops. 
Neither  this  mezzotinter  nor  etcher  reveals 
that  mysterious  "quality"  essential  in  the 
arts. 

It  is  quality,  then,  that  appeals  in  etching 
and  mezzotint.  It  was  quality  that  appealed 
when  the  specimen  plates  of  the  master  en 
gravers  were  in  vogue.  Well  and  good.  But 
why  doesn't  that  quality  continue  to  make 
the  same  appeal  now  to  our  fastidious  taste  as 
it  did  a  half  century  ago?  Naturally  enough, 
the  answer  is  Fashion,  which  has  decreed  that 
the  grand  old  line-engravings  be  hung  in  cre 
puscular  hallways.  To  be  sure,  there  is  a  corri- 
80 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PRINTS 

dor  in  the  Pitti  Palace,  Florence,  a  sun-flooded 
hallway  upon  which  sing  the  marvels  of  lyric 
line-engravings.  Fashion  says:  admire  the 
signed  etching,  coddle  the  impertinent  remarque 
proof;  Fashion  has  set  topnotch  figures  for  the 
English  mezzotinters  of  English  portraiture. 
By  leaps  and  bounds  the  prices  of  Green  and 
a  few  of  his  contemporaries  have  been  mount 
ing,  so  that  to  own  a  Gainsborough  or  a  Sir 
Joshua  portrait  in  mezzotint  is  to  proclaim 
yourself  a  person  of  means.  Nor  should  there 
be  a  protest  against  these  exalted  prices.  Rare 
art  can  never  be  high  enough;  besides,  the 
domain  of  mezzotinting  will  soon  be  as  bare 
of  practitioners  as  that  of  line-engraving.  S. 
Arlent  Edwards  is  a  name  that  occurs  to  us 
in  mezzotinting.  Joseph  PennelPs  essays  in 
that  medium  reveal  his  mastery;  while  the 
artist  that  is  Timothy  Cole,  stands  solitary 
as  probably  the  last  of  distinguished  wood- 
engravers,  as  Mandel  may  be  said  to  have  been 
the  last  of  famous  European  line-engravers. 

The  once  haughty  elder  sister  of  the  arts 
graphic  is  now  become  their  Cinderella.  Who 
but  an  anonymous  minority  cares  for  the  stately 
engraved  pictures  of  the  past?  How  their  dig 
nified  style  reproaches  the  heedless  haste  of 
latter-day  photographic  reproductions !  Yet, 
what  modern  mechanical  process  can  match 
the  slowly  executed  plates  of  Mantegna,  Marc 
Antonio  Ramondi,  Albrecht  Diirer,  or  Nanteuil 
—  who  engraved  after  his  own  designs  ?  From 
81 


VARIATIONS 

the  finesse  of  the  Behams  to  the  majestic  sweep 
of  Bervic,  or  the  virtuosity  of  Antoine  Masson 
-  consider  his  head  of  Brisacier,  the  Gray- 
Haired  Man  —  has  not  every  manner,  every 
mood,  every  technique  been  reproduced — rather, 
let  us  say,  interpreted  —  in  the  terms  of  line- 
engraving?  The  engraved  plate  can  state  as 
succinctly  as  the  etched  the  linear  fretwork 
and  silhouette  of  forms.  Among  other  resources, 
the  engraved  plate  is  a  method  of  the  disposing 
of  mass.  It  is  more  subtle  than  mezzotint  in 
the  indication  of  character,  and  is  seldom  so 
monotonous;  while  to  the  impressionism  and 
often  insignificant  patterns  of  etching  it  opposes 
a  static  quality,  opposes  with  its  synthetic  quali 
ties  of  the  permanent,  the  majestic,  the  gracious, 
and  the  powerful.  As  a  medium  it  is  as  supple 
as  either  etching  or  scraped  copper,  though  in 
this  attribute  it  yields  to  wood-engraving. 

What  cannot  line-engraving  do  in  the  way 
of  interpretation?  Think  of  the  variety  of 
technical  styles  and  artistic  individualities. 
Ambushed  behind  every  laboriously  engraved 
"steel"  plate  —  steel  is  only  in  use  since  1820 
—  there  lurks  a  personality.  Think  of  Man- 
tegna,  a  master  of  line  in  his  painting;  of  Lucas, 
of  the  quaint  Martin  Schongauer,  of  Altdorfer, 
Wierix  —  who  aped  Rembrandt  in  his  version 
of  The  Three  Trees  — of  Sadeler  and  Goltzius; 
of  Caracci,  Wille,  Nanteuil,  Raphael  Morghen, 
Visscher,  with  his  Sleeping  Cat  and  his  Rat- 
Catcher;  of  the  Brevets,  of  William  Sharp, 
82 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PRINTS 

Robert  Strange,  and  Woolet,  the  English  trio; 
and  George  Friedrich  Schmidt  is  still  a  name 
to  conjure  with.  A  litany  of  names  might  be 
recited  of  engravers  who  have  made  master 
pieces.  To-day,  when  we  are  in  such  a  hurry 
to  go  nowhere  to  see  nothing,  the  lenten  and 
aristocratic  art  of  line-engraving  has  lost  its 
glamour,  its  significance.  Nevertheless,  a  beau 
tiful  art  it  will  always  remain,  beautiful  not 
withstanding  the  fluctuations  of  fashion.  We 
feel  that  the  pendulum  of  popular  taste  will 
surely  swing  back  to  this  method  of  black-and- 
white,  despite  its  slow,  painful  process  of  pro 
duction.  After  an  optical  debauch  in  color, 
line  is  regaining  its  old  supremacy.  What  else 
meant  the  apparition  of  cubism  but  a  revolt 
against  a  too  fluid  impressionism!  If  this  be 
true  of  easel-paintings  it  will  come  truer  of  line- 
engraving.  The  Sisters  Five  should  walk 
abreast,  not  processionally  —  line,  mezzotint, 
etching,  wood-cutting  and  lithography  are  their 
names.  And  no  one  of  this  family  is  handsomer, 
more  stately,  more  decorative,  less  <e spotty" 
on  a  wall  than  the  classics  of  line-engraving. 


NEW  RUSSIA  FOR  OLD 

A  DISTINGUISHED  Russian  diplomat,  a  visitor 
now  in  America,  has  asked  us  not  to  judge 
Russia  too  hastily;  above  all,  not  to  abandon 
hopes  for  her  future.  The  deposition  of  the 
Romanovs  could  not  be  accomplished  without 
a  social  cataclysm  and  the  presence  of  what 
Nicholas  Murray  Butler  has  so  happily  called 
"an  inverted  autocracy,"  that  is  to  say,  contem 
porary  Bolshevikism.  But  the  newcomers,  after 
tumbling  over  thrones  and  dynasties,  cannot  be 
expected  to  halt  at  any  half-way  house  of  out 
worn  political  expediency.  Their  slogan  is:  All 
or  Nothing.  Everything  is  permitted.  Pre 
cisely  the  device  on  the  victorious  standards  of 
that  strange  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain,  from 
whose  followers  we  derive  the  sinister  word 
"Assassin."  Yet  we  are  fain  to  believe  that,  as 
nothing  long  endures,  the  tremendous  Russian 
muddle  will  be  straightened  out  sometime.  In 
the  bad  old  days  when  the  Russian  moujik  was 
not  singing  songs  saturated  with  vodka,  he  spun 
legends  shot  through  with  the  fantastic  or  grim 
with  the  pain  of  life.  In  the  European  concert 
his  formidable  bass  voice  made  the  voices  of  his 
neighbors  seem  thin  and  piping.  Napoleon 
prophesied  that  before  the  end  of  the  nineteenth 
century  Europe  would  be  either  republican  or 

84 


NEW  RUSSIA  FOR  OLD 

cossack,  and  a  Moscow  journal  has  proclaimed 
that  the  "twentieth  century  belongs  to  us." 
One  need  not  be  a  Slavophile  to  admire  Russian 
patriotism.  The  love  of  a  Russian  for  his  coun 
try  is  a  veritable  passion.  And  from  lips  parched 
by  the  desire  of  liberty,  though  the  Russian  be 
persecuted,  exiled,  imprisoned,  and  murdered, 
this  passion  is  ever  voiced  with  unabated  in 
tensity.  What  eloquent  apostrophes  have  their 
great  writers  made  to  their  native  land!  The 
youngest  among  the  great  nations,  herself  a  na 
tion  with  genius,  she  must  possess  a  mighty 
power  thus  to  arouse  the  souls  of  her  children. 
How  Turgenieff  praised  her  noble  tongue:  "O! 
mighty  Russian  language!"  .  .  . 

Yet  the  Russian  is  a  cosmopolitan  man;  he  is 
more  French  than  the  Parisian,  and  a  sojourner 
among  English  ideas.  Ivan  Turgenieff,  a  Musco 
vite  doubled  by  a  Greek  artist,  was  called  a  cos 
mopolitan  by  Dostoievsky  —  that  profound  and 
sombre  soul  —  and  it  was  a  frequent  reproach 
made  during  his  lifetime  that  the  music  of 
Tschaikovsky  was  not  sufficiently  national; 
whereas  to  western  ears  it  once  smacked  too 
much  of  the  Kalmuck.  Naturally,  Anton  Ru 
binstein  suffered  from  the  same  criticism;  too 
German  for  the  Russians,  too  Russian  for  the 
Germans.  The  case  of  Modeste  Moussorgsky 
is  altogether  different.  If  Russian  music,  the 
organized  musical  speech  of  the  nation,  owes 
much  to  Schumann,  Berlioz,  and  Liszt,  never 
theless  Michael  Glinka  was  its  father.  Like 

85 


VARIATIONS 

Weber,  he  lovingly  plucked  from  his  native  soil 
its  wild  flowers  of  melody,  and  gave  them  an 
operatic  setting  in  his  Ruslan  and  Life  for  the 
Czar.  In  his  turn  and  representing  the  elder 
school  are  Darjomisky  and  Serov,  while  with 
New  Russia  blazoned  on  their  banners  follow 
Cesar  Cui,  Rimsky-Korsakov,  Borodin,  Bali- 
kirev,  Glazounov,  Stcherbatchev,  Rachmaninov, 
Arensky,  Moussorgsky,  and,  last  not  least, 
Scriabin. 

It  might  prove  interesting  to  compare  the 
cosmopolitanism  of  Tschaikovsky  with  Tur- 
genieffs.  George  Moore  insists  with  Celtic  ob 
stinacy  that  Turgenieff  is  the  greatest  master  of 
fiction,  greater  even  than  Flaubert,  because  his 
art  is  effortless.  Certainly,  the  Russian  is  the 
most  artistic  among  novelists.  Tschaikovsky 
was  suspiciously  regarded  by  the  lesser  native 
choir,  while  the  big  men,  Gogol,  Pushkin,  Dos 
toievsky,  and  Tolstoy  had  an  army  of  imitators, 
who  wore  their  blouses  untucked  in  their  trou 
sers.  It  was  a  symbol.  Their  watchword  was: 
We  are  going  to  the  People !  From  the  Intelli 
gentsia,  the  students,  to  the  peasant  himself, 
this  ominous  cry  was  heard.  It  is  still  sounded. 
Its  echoes  are  in  Western  ears.  The  Great  White 
Czar  would  not  heed  the  warning.  Going  to  the 
People  is  a  phrase  indicating  a  savage  reaction 
against  cosmopolitan  influences;  Russia  had 
successively  suffered  from  the  invasions  of  Eng 
lish,  French,  and  German  ideas,  customs,  man 
ners,  costumes.  The  rabid  Slavophilist  would 
86 


NEW  RUSSIA  FOR  OLD 

have  none  of  these.  He  disliked  Italian  pictures, 
loathed  German  philosophy,  despised  French 
literature,  and  hated  English  politics.  Yet, 
from  these  seemingly  disparate  elements  was 
born  a  national  consciousness,  a  national  culture. 
Its  eclecticism  caused  its  disintegration. 

To  comprehend  latter-day  Russian  music  we 
should  remember  that  the  national  spirit  per 
vades  its  masterpieces.  And  that  spirit  is  not 
in  a  special  compartment  separated  from  the 
seven  arts,  but  waters  their  roots.  With  us  art 
is  a  tender  flower,  isolated  as  if  in  a  hothouse. 
The  artist  in  America  lives  in  a  vacuum,  or  else 
creates  his  own  atmosphere.  In  Russia,  "bar 
barous"  Russia,  as  we  condescendingly  refer  to 
her,  an  artist  is  first  a  patriot.  The  English 
critic,  John  M.  Robertson,  wrote  in  1891:  "In 
that  strange  country  where  brute  power  seems 
to  be  throttling  all  the  highest  life  of  the  people 
.  .  .  there  yet  seems  to  be  no  cessation  in  the 
production  of  truthful  literary  art,  ...  for  jus 
tice  of  perception,  soundness  and  purity  of  taste, 
and  skill  of  workmanship,  we  in  England  with 
all  our  freedom,  can  offer  no  parallel. "  Tyranny, 
then,  may  be  forcing  ground  for  genius !  From 
Gogol  to  Artzibachev  Russian  literature  achieved 
its  spiritual  freedom  despite  the  Czar  and  Si 
beria.  The  reason  we  speak  of  these  writers  and 
composers  is  because  to  know  them  is  to  grasp 
the  psychology  of  Russian  music,  which  is  so 
often  inspired  by  the  poems,  novels,  and  dramas 
of  Pushkin,  Lermontov,  Gogol,  Dostoievsky, 

87 


VARIATIONS 

TurgeniefT,  Tolstoy,  Ostrovsky,  Gorky,  Andrey 
ev,  Artzibachev,  and  by  the  paintings  of  Repin, 
Perov,  Verestchagin,  and,  in  the  case  of  Pro- 
kofieff,  by  Boris  Anisfeld. 

We  have  elsewhere  made  a  critical  comparison 
of  Dostoievsky  with  Moussorgsky;  no  need  to 
refer  to  it  here,  except  to  say  that  when  Dos 
toievsky  wrote,  "The  soul  of  another  is  a  dark 
place,  and  the  Russian  soul  is  a  dark  place," 
he  accurately  plotted  his  nation's  psychic  curve. 
And  let  it  be  said  in  passing  that  the  author  of 
Crime  and  Punishment  had  developed  the  mys 
tic  idea  (your  Russian  is  nothing  if  not  mystical) 
that  from  Russia  must  come  the  salvation  of  the 
peoples  of  the  earth  —  from  Russian  Christi 
anity.  This  notion  became  an  obsession  of  the 
great-souled  writer,  in  whose  Karamasov 
Brothers  and  The  Possessed  (Besi),  may  be  found 
the  leading  motives  of  Nietzsche's  philosophy: 
the  superman,  the  eternal  recurrence,  the  fan 
tastic  idea  that  eternity  may  be  in  a  "boxed-in" 
bathhouse,  an  idea  that  Henri  Barbusse,  who  is 
saturated  with  Dostoievsky,  develops  in  L'Enfer, 
that  infinity  is  contained  within  us.  Eternity 
is  Now.  Tolstoy,  who  was  best  described  by 
Count  Melchior  de  Vogue  in  his  epigram  as 
having  "the  mind  of  an  English  chemist  in  the 
soul  of  a  Hindoo  Buddhist"  ("On  dirait  1'esprit 
d'un  chimiste  anglais  dans  1'ame  d'un  buddhiste 
hindou")  has  not  played  as  influential  a  role 
among  Russian  composers  because  he  was  essen 
tially  tone-deaf.  His  Kreutzer  Sonata  demon- 
88 


NEW  RUSSIA  FOR  OLD 

strates  how  a  man  ignorant  of  music,  great 
artist  that  he  is,  may  write  himself  down  ab 
surdly.  In  comparison  Dostoievsky  is  a  spiri 
tual  reservoir  of  musical  certitudes;  while  in 
Turgenieff,  thanks  to  a  natural  sensibility  and 
years  of  musical  cultivation  while  sojourning  in 
the  household  of  the  Viardot-Garcias  at  Paris 
•*-  surely  the  happiest  as  well  as  the  most  artistic 
"  menage  a  trois"  in  history  —  he  wrote  of  the 
art  with  sympathy  and  understanding. 

The  further  one  dives  into  the  Orient  the  more 
chromatic  become  the  arts,  especially  the  tonal 
art.  The  chromatic  scale  was  once  the  shib 
boleth  of  the  Neo-Russian  composer,  and,  being 
the  artistic  offspring  of  Liszt  and  the  Slav,  he 
vainly  sought  to  veil  his  paternity  by  painting 
it  over  with  local  color.  It  was  then  a  trackless 
and  seldom  explored  country  his,  full  of  yawn 
ing  harmonic  precipices,  melodies  that  are  at 
once  heavenly  and  hideous  —  like  the  mouth  of 
a  pretty  woman  with  missing  front  teeth;  moun 
tainous  ideals,  bleak  surprises,  and  rugged  vistas. 
To-day  matters  have  changed.  The  younger 
generation,  headed  by  the  astonishing  Alexander 
Scriabin,  has  thrown  chromaticism  to  the  dogs. 
The  whole-tone  scale  is  monarch.  Arnold 
Schoenberg  declared  the  scale  must  escape  the 
House  of  Bondage  and  be  free  from  scholastic 
shackles.  Modulation  is  to  be  as  Free  Love, 
which  may  supersede  marriage  —  according  to 
the  recent  programme  of  the  Reds.  Rebikov, 
Stravinsky,  Serge  Prokofieff,  and  Leo  Ornstein 

89 


VARIATIONS 

have  long  ago  nailed  their  color  to  the  mast.  It 
is  unequivocally  scarlet.  Notwithstanding  the 
seeming  anarchy  in  all  these  social  and  artistic 
manifestations,  we  believe  that  to  the  Slav  is 
the  future.  Out  of  darkest  Russia  may  emerge 
the  next  world-composer.  Scriabin  may  be  only 
the  Precursor  of  the  new  evangel.  Dostoievsky 
is  right.  There  is  enough  fire  of  righteousness 
in  the  Russians  to  burn  up  the  world  and  all  its 
wickedness.  Russia  is  the  matrix  heavy  with 
unborn  genius,  and  who  shall  bear  down  too 
heavily  now  on  her  sorrow  and  travail  ?  Water 
seeks  its  level.  A  country  is  no  greater  than  her 
great  men.  And  how  truly  great  are  those  we 
have  just  named !  New  lamps  for  old.  A  new 
and  glorious  Russia  for  the  old.  Avos ! 


90 


CEZANNE 

CEZANNE  was  pre-eminently  occupied  with 
the  problem  of  space  and  its  corollaries,  bulk, 
weight,  density,  and  with  the  still  more  stu 
pendous  problem  of  getting  on  a  flat  surface  the 
suggestion  of  a  third  dimension  —  thickness. 
To  achieve  even  a  suggestion  proves  him  a  genius. 
And  he  was  a  genius.  His  supreme  technical 
qualities  are  volume,  ponderability,  and  a  per 
sonal  color-scheme.  What's  the  use  of  asking 
whether  he  is  a  sound  draftsman  or  not?  He 
is  a  master  of  "  edges,"  a  magician  of  tonalities. 
Huysmans  spoke  to  me  of  the  defective  eyesight 
of  Cezanne;  but  disease  boasts  its  discoveries 
as  well  as  health.  Possibly  his  " abnormal" 
vision  gave  him  glimpses  of  a  reality  denied  to 
other  painters.  He  advised  students  to  look 
for  the  contrasts  and  correspondences  of  tone. 
He  practised  what  he  preached.  No  painter 
was  so  little  affected  by  personal  moods,  by 
those  variations  of  temperament  dear  to  the 
professional  artist.  Did  Cezanne  possess  the 
temperament  he  was  always  talking  about?  If 
he  did,  his  temperament  was  not  precisely  dec 
orative  or  flamboyant. 

An  unwearying  experimenter,  he  seldom  "fin 
ished"  a  picture.  His  morose  landscapes  were 
usually  painted  from  one  scene  near  his  home 


VARIATIONS 

at  Aix.  I  saw  the  spot.  The  pictures  do  not 
closely  resemble  it  —  that  is,  in  the  photographic 
sense  —  which  simply  means  that  Cezanne  had 
the  vision  and  I  had  not.  A  few  themes  with 
polyphonic  variations  filled  his  simple  life;  art 
was  submerged  by  its  apparatus.  His  was  the 
centripetal,  not  the  centrifugal,  temperament. 
In  the  domain  of  his  rigid,  intense  ignorance 
there  was  little  space  for  climate,  charm,  hardly 
for  sunshine.  Recall  the  blazing  blue  sky  and 
sun  of  Provence,  the  tropical  riot  of  its  vegeta 
tion,  its  gamuts  of  green  and  scarlet,  and  then 
search  for  this  mellow  richness  and  misty,  golden 
air  in  the  pictures  of  the  master.  You  won't 
find  them  in  his  dim,  muffled  surfaces,  though 
a  mystic  light  permeates  his  landscapes.  It  19 
the  sallow-sublime  in  its  apotheosis.  He  did  not 
paint  portraits  of  Provence  as  did  Daudet  in 
Numa  Roumestan,  or  Bizet  in  L'Arlesienne. 
Cezanne  sought  for  profounder  meanings.  The 
superficial,  the  facile,  the  staccato,  the  merely 
brilliant  repelled  him.  Not  that  he  was  an  "ab 
stract"  painter —  as  the  self -contradictory  atelier 
jargon  goes.  He  was  eminently  concrete.  He 
plays  a  legitimate  "trompe-Pceil"  on  the  optic 
nerve.  His  is  not  a  pictorial  illustration  of 
Provence,  but  the  slow,  cruel  delineation  of  a 
certain  hill  on  old  Mother  Earth  which  exposes 
her  bare  torso,  her  bald,  rocky  pate  and  grav 
elled  feet.  The  hallucination  is  inescapable. 

As  drab  as  the  orchestration  of  Brahms,  as 
austere  in  linear  economy  and  as  analytical  as 


CEZANNE 

Stendhal  or  Ibsen,  the  art  of  Cezanne  never 
becomes  truly  lyric  except  in  his  still  life.  Upon 
an  apple  he  lavishes  his  palette  of  smothered 
jewels.  And,  as  all  things  are  relative,  an  onion 
to  him  may  be  as  beautiful  as  a  naked  woman. 
Taste  is  not  one  of  his  marked  traits.  The 
chiefest  misconception  of  Cezanne  is  that  of  the 
theoretical  fanatics  who  not  only  proclaim  him 
chief  of  a  school,  which  he  is,  but  declare  him 
to  be  the  greatest  painter  since  the  Byzantines. 
This  assertion  I  have  read  in  cold  type.  There 
is  a  lot  of  inutile  talk  about  " significant  form'5 
by  propagandists  —  usually  rotten  bad  painters. 
As  if  form  had  not  always  been  "  significant." 
When  the  impressionists  as  a  school,  now  out 
moded  as  the  Barbizons,  began  to  issue  their 
prospectuses,  the  emphasis  was  laid  upon  form; 
form  having  served  its  purpose  must  go  —  at 
least  become  subordinate  to  color  and  its  de 
composition.  The  suave  line  of  Raphael  had 
degenerated  into  the  insipid  arabesques  of 
Lefebvre,  Bouguereau,  and  Cabanel.  No  deny 
ing  these  truths,  since  become  platitudes.  Form 
is  again  in  the  ascendant,  impressionism  having 
in  its  turn  become  deliquescence.  No  one  denies 
Cezanne's  preoccupation  with  form,  nor  Cour- 
bet's,  either.  Consider  the  Oman's  landscapes, 
with  their  sombre  flux  of  forest,  painted  by  the 
crassest  realist  among  French  artists,  though  he 
seems  hopelessly  romantic  to  our  sharper,  more 
petulant  mode  of  envisaging  the  world ;  yet  what 
better  example  of  "significant  form"  and  solid 

93 


VARIATIONS 

structural  sense  than  Courbet's?  Nevertheless, 
Cezanne  quite  o'ercrows  Courbet  in  his  feeling 
for  the  massive  —  sometimes  you  can't  see  the 
ribs  of  his  landscapes  because  of  the  skeleton. 

Cezanne's  was  a  twilight  soul.  And  a  humor 
less  one.  His  early  painting  was  quasi-struc 
tural,  well-nigh  modelling.  Always  the  archi 
tectural  sense.  His  rhythms  are  often  elliptical. 
He  has  a  predilection  for  the  asymmetrical. 
Yet  he  is  a  man  who  lent  to  an  art  of  two  dimen 
sions,  the  illusion  of  a  third.  His  tactile  values 
are  raised  to  the  nth  degree.  His  color  is  per 
sonal.  Huysmans  was  clairvoyant  when,  a  half 
century  ago,  he  wrote  of  Cezanne's  work  as  con 
taining  the  prodromes  of  a  new  art.  The  han 
dling  of  his  material  alone  absorbed  him,  and  not 
its  lyric,  dramatic,  anecdotic,  or  rhetorical  ele 
ments.  He  despised  "literary"  painting.  His 
portraits  are  charged  with  character.  But  he 
sometimes  profoundly  ponders  unimportant  mat 
ters —  loses  himself  in  a  desert  of  sandy  the 
orizing. 

The  tang  of  the  town  is  not  in  his  portraits  of 
places.  His  leaden,  metallic  landscapes  seldom 
spontaneously  arouse  to  activity  the  jaded  retina 
fed  on  Fortuny,  Monticelli,  or  Monet.  In  his 
groups  of  bathing  women  there  is  no  sex  appeal. 
Merely  women  in  their  natural  pelt,  as  heavy 
flanked  as  Percheron  mares.  They  are  as  ugly 
as  the  females  of  Degas,  and  twice  as  truthful. 
With  beauty,  academic  or  operatic,  he  had  no 
traffic.  If  you  don't  care  for  his  graceless  nudes, 

94 


CEZANNE 

you  may  console  yourself  with  the  axiom  that 
there  is  no  disputing  tastes  —  with  the  taste 
less.  We  have  seen  some  of  his  still-life  pieces 
so  acid  in  tonal  quality  as  to  suggest  that  divine 
dissonance  produced  on  the  palate  by  a  stale 
oyster,  or  akin  to  the  rancid  note  of  an  oboe  in 
a  pantomime  score  by  Stravinsky.  But  what 
thrice  subtle  sonorities,  what  opulent  color- 
chords  may  be  found  in  his  compositions.  His 
fruits  savor  of  the  earth.  Chardin  interprets 
still-life  with  realistic  beauty;  when  he  paints 
an  onion  it  reveals  a  certain  grace.  Vollon  dram 
atizes  it,  or  embroiders  its  homely  shape  with 
luxuriant  decorations.  When  Cezanne  paints 
an  onion  you  smell  it.  His  apples  are  —  seem 
ingly —  falling  off  the  table.  How  despairing 
are  the  efforts  of  his  imitators  to  get  those  slant 
ing  surfaces  covered  with  fruit  and  vegetables 
that  have  just  been  brought  in  by  the  cook. 
You  say,  Miraculous!  and  make  a  gesture  to 
prevent  the  ripe  stuff  from  sliding  to  the  floor. 
The  "representation"  abhorred  of  the  Cubists 
in  its  most  pregnant  shapes  is  there. 

Cezanne  did  not  occupy  himself,  as  did  Manet, 
with  the  ideas,  manners  and  aspects  of  his  gen 
eration.  With  the  classic  retort  of  Manet,  he 
could  have  replied  to  those  who  taunted  him 
with  not  "finishing"  his  pictures,  "Sir,  I  am 
not  a  historical  painter."  Nor  need  we  be  dis 
concerted  in  any  estimate  of  him  by  the  depress 
ing  snobbery  of  collectors  who  don't  know  B 
from  bull's  foot  but  go  off  at  half-trigger  in 

95 


VARIATIONS 

their  enthusiasm  when  a  hint  is  dropped  as  to 
the  possibilities  of  a  painter  appreciating  in  a 
pecuniary  sense.  Cezanne  is  the  painting  idol 
of  the  present  crowd,  as  were  Manet  and  Monet 
a  few  decades  ago.  These  aesthetic  fluctuations 
should  not  distract  us.  Henner,  Cabanel,  Bour- 
guereau  too,  were  idolized  once  upon  a  time  and 
served  to  make  a  millionaire's  holiday  by  hang 
ing  in  his  marble  bathroom.  It  is  the  undeniable 
truth  that  Cezanne  has,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
younger  generation,  become  a  tower  of  strength 
which  intrigues  critical  fancy.  Cezanne  is  sin 
cere  to  the  core,  yet  even  stark  sincerity  does 
not,  of  necessity,  imply  the  putting  forth  of 
masterpieces.  Before  he  attained  his  synthetic 
power  he  patiently  studied  Delacroix,  Courbet, 
and  the  early  Italians.  At  times  he  achieved 
the  foundational  structure  of  Courbet,  though 
I  don't  think  he  had  either  the  brains  or  the 
painting  temperament  of  his  elder  contemporary, 
whose  portee  was  at  times  tremendous.  Hos 
tile  critics  declare  that  the  canvases  of  St.  Paul 
of  Provence  are  sans  composition,  sans  linear 
pattern,  sans  personal  charm.  However,  "pop 
ularity  is  for  dolls,"  says  Emerson. 

I  saw  at  the  Champs  de  Mars  Salon  of  1901 
a  large  picture  by  Maurice  Denis,  entitled  Hom- 
mage  a  Cezanne,  the  idea  of  which  was  mani 
festly  inspired  by  Manet's  Hommage  a  Fantin- 
Latour,  or  Fantin's  Batignolle  School.  The 
Maurice  Denis  canvas  depicts  a  still-life  by 
Cezanne  on  a  chevalet,  which  is  surrounded  by 


CEZANNE 

the  figures  of  certain  painters  —  Bonnard,  Denis, 
Redon,  Roussel,  Serusier,  Vuillard,  Mellerio,  and 
Vollard.  Cezanne  is  posed  standing  and  is  ap 
parently  embarrassed,  which  was  his  natural 
condition.  There  was  a  special  Cezanne  Salle, 
as  there  was  one  devoted  to  Eugene  Carriere, 
but  Cezanne  held  the  place  of  honor.  With  all 
his  naive  vanity  he  was  dazzled  by  the  uproarious 
championship  of  "les  jeunes,"  and,  to  give  him 
credit  for  a  peasant  astuteness,  he  was  rather 
suspicious  of  the  demonstration.  But  he  stolidly 
accepted  the  frantic  homage  of  the  youngsters, 
all  the  while  looking  like  a  bourgeois  Buddha. 
To-day  a  Cezanne  of  quality  is  costly.  Why 
not?  When  juxtaposed  with  many  modern 
painters  his  vital  art  makes  other  pictures  seem 
linoleum  or  papier  mache.  The  nervous,  shrink 
ing  man  I  saw  at  Aix  and  later  at  Paris  would 
have  been  astounded  at  the  praise  printed  since 
his  death;  while  he  yearned  for  the  publicity  of 
the  official  Salon  —  as  did  his  school-friend  Zola 
for  a  seat  in  the  Academy  —  none  the  less,  he 
disliked  notoriety.  He  loved  hard  work.  He 
loved  his  solitude.  With  a  fresh  batch  of  can 
vases  he  trudged  every  morning  to  his  pet  land 
scape,  the  Motive,  he  called  it,  and  it  was  there 
that  he  daily  slaved  with  genuine  technical 
heroism.  When  I  first  saw  him  he  was  a  queer, 
sardonic  old  gentleman  in  ill-fitting  clothes,  with 
the  shrewd,  suspicious  gaze  of  a  provincial  no 
tary.  Like  John  La  Farge,  he  hated  shaking 
hands.  A  rare  impersonality. 

97 


VARIATIONS 

Goethe  has  told  us  that  because  of  his  limita 
tions  we  may  recognize  a  master.  The  limita 
tions  of  Cezanne  are  patent.  An  investigator, 
experimenter,  even  fumbler,  he  did  not  deem  it 
wise  to  stray  from  his  chosen,  if  narrow,  field. 
His  non-conformism  defines  his  genius.  Imagine 
reversing  musical  history  and  finding  Johann 
Sebastian  Bach  following  Richard  Strauss. 
The  very  notion  is  monstrous.  Yet,  figuratively 
speaking,  this  order  constitutes  the  case  of  Ce 
zanne.  He  arrived  on  the  pictorial  scene  after 
the  classic,  romantic,  impressionistic,  and  sym 
bolic  schools.  He  is  a  primitive,  not  made  like 
Puvis  de  Chavannes,  but  one  born  with  an  un 
affected  crabbed  simplicity.  Paul  Cezanne  will 
be  remembered  as  a  painter  who  respected  his 
material,  also  as  a  painter,  pure,  without  pre 
occupation  in  schools  or  ideas.  No  man  who 
wields  a  brush  need  ask  for  a  more  enduring 
epitaph. 


98 


EILI  EILI  LOMO  ASOVTONI? 

"How  shall  we  sing  the  Lord's  song  in  a 
strange  land?"  I  couldn't  help  recalling  these 
words  of  the  Psalmist,  these  and  the  opening, 
"By  the  rivers  of  Babylon,"  in  which  is  com 
pressed  the  immemorial  melancholy  of  an  en 
slaved  race,  when  I  heard  Sophie  Braslau  intone 
with  her  luscious  contralto,  a  touching  Hebrew 
lament,  "Eili  Eili  Lomo  Asovtoni?"  at  a  con 
cert  last  winter.  Naturally  I  believed  the  mel 
ody  to  be  the  echo  of  some  tribal  chant  sung  in 
the  days  of  the  Babylonian  captivity,  and  per 
haps  before  that  in  the  days  of  the  prehistoric 
Sumerians  and  the  epic  of  Gilgamesh.  Others 
have  made  the  same  error.  Judge  of  my  sur 
prise  when  in  a  copy  of  The  American  Jewish 
News  I  read  that  the  composer  of  Eili  Eili  is 
living,  that  his  name  is  Jacob  Kopel  Sandier, 
that  he  wrote  the  music  for  a  historical  drama, 
Die  B'ne  Moishe  (The  Sons  of  Moses),  which 
deals  with  the  Chinese  Jews.  Mr.  Sandier  had 
written  the  song  for  Sophie  Carp,  a  Yiddish  ac 
tress  and  singer.  The  Sons  of  Moses  was  a 
failure,  and  a  new  piece,  Brocha,  the  Jewish 
King  of  Poland,  was  prepared.  (Not  alluding 
to  Pan  Dmowski.)  It  was  produced  at  the 
Windsor  Theatre  in  the  Bowery.  The  song, 
not  the  play,  was  a  success.  Then  the  music 

99 


VARIATIONS 

drifted  into  queer  company,  for  music  is  a  living 
organism  and  wanders  when  it  is  not  controlled. 
Finally  Sophie  Braslau  got  hold  of  it,  and  the 
composer,  who  was  directing  a  choir  in  a  Bronx 
synagogue,  was  astounded  to  hear  of  the  accla 
mations  of  a  Metropolitan  Opera  House  Sunday 
night  audience.  His  daughter  has  listened  to 
Eili  Eili  and  brought  home  the  good  news. 
After  troublesome  preliminaries  "  Meyer  Beer," 
the  pen  name  of  the  musical  editor  of  The  Ameri 
can  Jewish  News,  was  able  to  prove  beyond  per- 
adventure  of  a  doubt  the  artistic  parentage  of 
the  song,  and  Jacob  Sandier  is  in  a  fair  way  of 
being  idolized  in  his  community,  as  he  should  be. 
Eili  Eili  lomo  asovtoni?  may  be  found  in 
Psalm  22,  the  first  line  of  the  second  verse  in 
Hebrew.  In  the  English  version  the  words  of 
David  are  in  the  first  verse:  "My  God,  my  God, 
why  hast  thou  forsaken  me?"  And  in  the  St. 
Mark's  Gospel  we  read:  "And  at  the  ninth  hour 
Jesus  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  saying,  '  Eloi,  Eloi, 
lama  sabachthani  ? '  which  is,  being  interpreted : 
'My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken 
me?"  (Chapter  15,  verse  34.)  The  exegetists 
and  apologists,  as  well  as  sciolists,  have  made  of 
this  immortal  phrase  a  bone  of  theological  con 
tention.  Schmiedel,  who  with  Harnack  believes 
the  words  to  have  been  uttered  by  our  Saviour, 
nevertheless  points  out  various  details  which  pre 
figure  the  same  things  in  the  crucifix  —  the  just 
man  hanging  on  the  stake,  the  perforated  hands 
and  feet,  the  mocking  crowd,  the  soldiers  gam- 
100 


EILI  EILI  LOMO  ASOVTONI? 

bling  for  the  clothes,  everything  takes  place  as 
described  in  the  Psalm.  Lublinski  (in  Dogma, 
p.  93)  and  Arthur  Drews  (in  The  Historicity  of 
Jesus,  p.  150)  demur  to  the  orthodox  Christian 
conclusions  of  Harnack  and  Schmiedel.  A  be 
loved  master,  the  late  Solomon  Schechter,  dis 
posed  of  the  question  in  his  usual  open  style. 
"The  world  is  big  enough,"  he  has  said  to  me, 
for  both  Jehovah  and  Jesus,  "for  two  such 
grand  faiths  as  the  Hebrew  and  the  Christian." 
But  he  saw  Christianity  only  in  its  historical 
sequence,  and  not  as  a  continuator  of  Judaism; 
rather,  a  branching  away  from  the  main  trunk. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  Constantine,  the  world 
might  be  worshipping  Mithra  to-day,  was  the 
erudite  and  worthy  man's  belief.  Enveloped  in 
the  mists  of  the  first  two  centuries  Christianity 
seems  to  have  had  a  narrow  escape  from  the 
doctrines  of  Mithraism.  That  Salomon  Reinach 
practically  admits  in  his  Orpheus,  a  most  sig 
nificant  study  of  comparative  religions  from  the 
pen  of  this  French  savant. 

Once  upon  a  time  I  played  the  organ  in  a 
"shool,"  a  reformed,  not  an  orthodox,  syna 
gogue;  played  indifferently  well.  But  my  ac 
quaintance  with  the  Jewish  liturgy  dates  back 
to  my  boyhood  in  Philadelphia,  where  I  studied 
Hebrew,  in  company  with  Latin.  The  reason? 
My  mother  fondly  hoped  that  I  might  become 
a  priest  —  the  very  thought  of  which  makes  me 
shudder  now.  The  religious  in  me  found  vent 
in  music,  and  my  love  of  change  was  gratified 
101 


VARIATIONS 

by  playing  the  Hebrew  service  on  Shabbas 
(Saturday)  and  the  Roman  Catholic  on  our 
Sabbath.  Probably  that  is  why  I  was  affected 
by  Sophie  Braslau's  singing  of  Eili  Eili.  Rosa 
Raisa  has  put  the  song  in  her  repertory,  and 
only  on  Easter  Sunday  last  did  Sarah  Borni  sing 
it,  although  it  appeared  on  the  programme  as  a 
composition  of  Kurt  Schindler's,  an  error  quickly 
rectified  by  Miss  Borni,  who  did  not  know  the 
authorship  till  too  late.  "Such  songs,"  com 
mented  this  soprano,  "come  but  once  in  a  man's 
lifetime."  Dorothy  Jardon  will  no  doubt  sing 
Eili  Eili,  as  she  sang  for  the  first  time  a  Jahrzeit, 
a  Kaddish  by  Rhea  Silberta,  at  the  Hippodrome 
last  Sunday.  Mr.  Sandier  has  come  into  his 
own,  and  it  is  gratifying  to  record  that  the  credit 
is  largely  due  to  Meyer  Beer  and  The  American 
Jewish  News. 

I  have  always  entertained  a  peculiar  admira 
tion  for  the  Jews  and  Judaism.  It  began  with 
the  study  of  Semitic  literature  of  the  Talmud, 
above  all  of  Hebrew  poetry,  the  most  sublime  in 
our  language,  as  Matthew  Arnold  asserts  in  his 
comparative  estimate  of  Greek  and  Hebraic  cul 
tures.  My  dearest  friends  have  been,  still  are, 
of  that  race.  Prejudice,  social  or  political, 
against  the  Jew,  I  not  only  detest,  but  I  have 
never  been  able  to  comprehend.  My  early  play 
mates  were  Jewish  boys  and  girls.  I  have  stood 
under  the  "Choopah"  (marriage  canopy),  and 
have  seen  many  a  Bar-Mitzvah;  even  sat 
"Shivah"  for  the  dead  father  of  intimate  friends. 
102 


EILI  EILI  LOMO  ASOVTONI? 

From  Rafael  Joseffy  to  Georg  Brandes;  from  the 
brilliant  Hungarian  virtuoso  that  was  Joseffy  - 
whose  father,  a  learned  rabbi,  I  visited  at  Buda 
pest —  in  Pest-Ofen  —  in  1903,  when  he  was 
eighty-four,  an  Orientalist,  a  linguist  with 
twenty-six  languages,  ancient  and  modern,  at 
the  tip  of  his  tongue  —  to  Professor  Brandes, 
the  Danish  scholar,  an  intellectual  giant,  and  a 
critic  in  the  direct  line  of  Sainte-Beuve  and 
Taine  —  both  men  I  knew  and  loved.  Whether 
the  Jew  has  attained  the  summits  as  a  creator 
in  the  seven  arts  I  cannot  speak  authoritatively, 
although  the  Old  Testament  furnishes  abundant 
evidences  that  he  has  in  poetry.  Disraeli 
(Beaconsfield),  who  liked  to  tease  Gladstone  by 
calling  him  "Frohstein"  and  pointing  to  his 
rugged  Jewish  prophet's  features,  has  written 
of  his  race  most  eloquently.  I  should  like  to 
quote  a  passage  in  its  entirety,  but  time  and 
space  forbid.  But  an  excerpt  I  permit  myself 
the  luxury  of  reproduction:  "The  ear,  the  voice, 
the  fancy  teeming  with  combinations,  the  in 
spiration  fervid  with  picture  and  emotion,  that 
came  from  Caucasus,  and  which  we  have  pre 
served  unpolluted,  have  endowed  us  with  almost 
the  exclusive  privilege  of  music;  that  science  of 
harmonious  sounds  which  the  ancients  recog 
nized  as  most  divine  and  deified  in  the  person  of 
their  most  beautiful  creation.  .  .  ."  He  goes  on: 
"There  is  not  a  company  of  singers,  not  an  or 
chestra  in  a  single  capital,  that  is  not  crowded 
with  our  children  under  feigned  names  which 
103 


VARIATIONS 

they  adopt  to  conciliate  the  dark  aversion  which 
your  posterity  will  some  day  disclaim  with  shame 
and  disgust.  .  .  ." 

Lord  Beaconsfield  mentions  Rossini,  Meyer 
beer,  Mendelssohn  as  Jewish  composers,  and 
Pasta  and  Grisi  among  the  singers.  Probably  he 
had  not  heard  Rossini's  witticism  uttered  on  his 
deathbed:  "For  heaven's  sake,  don't  bury  me 
in  the  Jewish  cemetery ! "  Nor  did  Beaconsfield 
look  far  enough  ahead  when  he  wrote  "dark 
aversion" — which  is  wonderful.  To-day  the 
boot  is  on  the  other  leg.  It  may  be  Gentiles 
who  will  be  forced  to  change  their  names  to 
Jewish.  I  could  easily  sign  myself  "Shamus 
Hanuchah"  -leaving  out  the  "lichts"  -or 
pattern  after  the  name  Paderewski  jokingly 
wrote  on  his  photograph:  "For  Jacob  Huneker- 
stein." 

And  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  that  I  know 
Jews  who  themselves  are  ashamed  of  having 
been  born  Jews.  Incredible !  In  Vienna  I  have 
seen  St.  Stefan's  Cathedral  crowded  at  the  n 
o'clock  high  mass  by  most  fervent  worshippers, 
the  majority  of  whom  seemed  Semitic,  which 
prompted  me  to  propound  the  riddle :  When  is  a 
Jew  not  a  Jew?  Answer:  When  he  is  a  Roman 
Catholic  in  Vienna.  But  you  never  can  tell. 
As  Joseffy  used  to  say  when  some  musician  with 
a  nose  like  the  Ten  Commandments  was  intro 
duced,  as,  for  example,  Monsieur  Fontaine,  "He 
means  Brunnen,  or,  in  Hebrew,  Pischa.  He  is 
not  a  Jew,  but  his  grandmother  wore  a  'schei- 
104 


EILI  EILI  LOMO  ASOVTONI? 

teP"  (the  wig  still  worn  by  orthodox  Jewish 
women).  The  truth  is  that  among  the  virtuosi, 
singers,  actors,  the  Jew  holds  first  place.  Liszt 
and  Paganini  are  the  exceptions,  and  Paganini 
could  easily  pass  in  an  east  side  crowd  as  Jehu- 
dah.  As  to  the  Wagner  controversy,  not  started 
by  Nietzsche,  but  by  Rossini  and  Meyerbeer, 
who  referred  to  Wagner  as  Jewish,  that  was  set 
tled  by  O.  G.  Sonneck  in  his  little  book,  Was 
Wagner  a  Jew?  but  only  after  I  had  introduced 
to  the  columns  of  the  New  York  Times  Sunday 
Magazine  in  1913,  a  book  by  Otto  Bournot,  en 
titled  Ludwig  Geyer.  Geyer  was,  as  you  may 
remember,  the  stepfather  of  Richard  Wagner. 
Bournot  had  access  to  the  Baireuth  archives  and 
delved  into  the  newspapers  of  Geyer's  days. 
August  Bottiger's  Necrology  had  hitherto  been 
the  chief  source.  Mary  Burrell's  Life  of  Wagner 
was  the  first  to  give  the  true  spelling  of  the  name 
of  Wagner's  mother,  which  was  Bertz,  which 
may  be  Jewish  or  German,  as  you  like. 

The  Geyers  as  far  back  as  1700  were  pious 
folk.  The  first  of  the  family  mentioned  in  local 
history  was  a  certain  Benjamin  Geyer,  who 
about  1700  was  a  trombone  player  and  organist. 
Indeed,  the  Geyers  were  largely  connected  with 
the  evangelical  church.  Ludwig  Geyer,  virtually 
acknowledged  by  Baireuth  as  the  real  father  of 
Richard  Wagner,  looked  Jewish  (which  proves 
nothing,  as  I  have  seen  dark,  Semitic  fisher-folk 
on  the  coast  of  Galway)  and  displayed  Jewish 
versatility.  For  that  matter  the  composer  von 

105 


VARIATIONS 

Weber  looked  like  a  Jew,  as  does  Camille  Saint- 
Saens.  When  I  ventured  to  write  of  this  racial 
trait  —  much  more  marked  in  his  youth  —  the 
French  composer  sent  me  a  denial,  sarcastically 
asking  how  a  man  with  such  a  "holy"  name  as 
"Saint-Saens"  could  be  Jewish.  But  Leopold 
Godowsky,  who  was  intimate  with  him,  has  told 
me  that  he  took  his  mother's  name.  As  to 
Wagner,  a  little  story  may  suffice.  In  1896  I 
attended  the  Wagner  festival  at  Baireuth.  Be 
tween  performances  I  tramped  the  Franconian 
hills.  My  toes  hurt  me.  Looking  for  a  corn- 
cutter,  I  found  one  not  far  from  the  Wagner 
house.  The  old  chap  seated  me  in  his  doorway, 
probably  to  get  better  light,  and  as  he  crouched 
over  my  feet  in  the  street  I  asked  him  if  he  had 
known  Richard  Wagner.  "Know  Wagner !" 
he  irascibly  replied.  "He  passed  my  shop  every 
day.  Many  the  times  I  cut  his  corns.  Oh, 
no !  not  here;  over  yonder"  —  he  jerked  his  head 
in  the  direction  of  Wahnfried.  I  inquired  what 
kind  of  a  looking  man  was  Wagner.  "He  was 
a  little  bow-legged  Jew,  and  he  always  wore  a 
long  cloak  to  hide  his  crooked  legs."  Enfin !  the 
truth  from  the  mouth  of  babes.  This  beats 
.Nietzsche  and  his  "Vulture"  Geyer. 

Not  religion,  not  nationality,  but  race,  counts 
in  the  individual.  Wagner  looked  like  a  Jew. 
And  there  are  many  red-haired  Jews  with  pug 
noses  and  light  blue  eyes.  Renan  in  Le  Judaisme 
has  shown  us  how  non- Jewish  elements  were  in 
the  course  of  time  incorporated  within  the  race. 
106 


EILI  EILI  LOMO  ASOVTONI? 

The  Chazars  of  eastern  Europe  are  Jews,  only  a 
thousand  years  old.  Dr.  Brandes  in  a  confes 
sion  of  his  views  on  the  subject  has  said  —  in 
The  Journal  for  Jewish  History  and  Literature, 
published  at  Stockholm  (Teldscript  for  Judisk 
Historia),  and  quoted  by  Bernard  G.  Richards 
in  a  capital  study  of  Brandes  —  "from  the  fif 
teenth  to  the  sixteenth  year  of  my  life  I  regarded 
Judaism  purely  as  a  religion."  But  when  he  was 
abused  as  a  Jew  then  Georg  Brandes  felt  him 
self  a  genuine  Jew.  Many  a  man  has  found 
himself  in  a  similar  position.  Atavistic  im 
pulses,  submerged  in  subconsciousness,  may  ex 
plain  why  certain  men,  Gentiles,  scholars,  by 
nature  noncombatants,  have  left  their  peaceful 
study,  jeopardized  their  life,  ruined  their  reputa 
tion,  to  battle  for  an  obscure  Jew  Dreyfus. 
Zola,  of  Greek-Levantine  origin,  perhaps  Italian 
and  Jew,  was  one  of  those  valiant  souls  who 
fought  for  the  truth.  Anatole  France,  born  Thi- 
bault,  another.  Count  Thibault,  at  the  time 
of  the  Dreyfus  uproar,  challenged  the  great 
writer  who  signs  himself  Anatole  France  to  prove 
his  right  to  that  distinguished  Roman  Catholic 
name.  That  the  gentle  Anatole  is  the  very  spit 
and  spawn  of  a  Jew,  so  far  as  appearance  goes; 
that  since  Heine  (baptized  a  Christian)  no  such 
union  of  mocking  irony  and  tender,  poetic  emo 
tion  can  be  noted  in  the  work  of  any  writer,  are 
alike  valueless  as  testimony.  Nevertheless, 
many  believe  in  this  Hebraic  strain;  just  as  they 
feel  it  in  the  subtlety  of  Cardinal  Newman's 
107 


VARIATIONS 

writing  —  he  was  of  Dutch  stock  —  and  in  the 
humor  of  Charles  Lamb.  Both  Englishmen  are 
credited  with  the  " precious  quintessence,"  as 
Du  Maurier  would  say. 

I  have  had  to  stand  a  lot  of  good-natured  fun 
poked  at  me  for  my  Jewish  propensity.  I  can 
stand  it,  as  I  have  a  solid  substratum  of  history 
for  my  speculations.  Some  years  ago  The  Con 
temporary  Review  printed  an  article  entitled  "The 
Jdw  in  Music,"  with  this  motto  from  Oscar 
Wilde's  Salome:  "The  Jews  believe  only  in  what 
they  cannot  see."  The  writer's  name  was 
signed:  A.  E.  Keeton.  Not  even  the  assertion 
that  Beethoven  was  a  Belgian  is  half  so  icono 
clastic  as  some  of  the  assumptions  made  in  this 
study.  "When  Mozart  first  appeared  as  a 
prodigy  before  the  future  Queen  of  France, 
Marie  Antoinette,  she  announced  that  'a  genius 
must  not  be  a  Jew.'  The  original  name,  Ozart, 
was  changed.  Mozart  was  baptized !  Which 
anecdote  makes  the  scalp  to  freeze,  though  not 
because  of  its  verisimilitude.  Beethoven  and 
Rubinstein  looked  alike;  ergo!  But  then  they 
didn't.  In  the  case  of  Chopin  he  was  certainly 
Jewish-looking,  especially  in  the  Winterhalter 
and  Kwiatowski  portraits.  His  father  came 
from  Nancy,  in  Lorraine,  thickly  populated  by 
Jews.  The  original  name,  Szopen,  or  Szop,  is 
Jewish.  His  music,  especially  the  first  Scherzo 
in  B  minor,  has  a  Heine-like  irony,  and  irony  is 
a  prime  characteristic  of  the  Chosen  (or  Choosing 
as  Zangwill  puts  it)  race !  But  all  this  is  in  the 
108 


EILI  EILI  LOMO  ASOVTONI? 

key  of  wildest  surmise.  Wagner  was  born  in 
the  ghetto  at  Leipsic;  yet  that  didn't  make  him 
Jewish,  any  more  than  the  baptism  of  Mendels 
sohn  made  him  Christian.  Georges  Bizet  was 
of  Jewish  origin,  he  looked  Jewish;  but  the  fact 
that  he  married  the  daughter  of  Halevy  (Ha- 
Levi),  the  composer  of  La  Juive,  didn't  make  the 
composer  of  Carmen  a  Jew.  Neither  religion 
nor  nationality  are  any  more  than  superficial 
factors  in  the  nature  of  men  and  women.  Race 
alone  counts. 

Once  upon  a  time  I  wrote  a  Jewish  story, 
The  Shofar  Blew  at  Sunset.  Maggie  Cline 
liked  it;  so  did  Israel  Zangwill.  I  preserve  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Zangwill  telling  me  of  his  liking. 
The  story  appeared  in  Mile  New  York,  now  de 
funct.  It  was  afterward  translated  into  Yid 
dish,  though  it  did  not  give  general  satisfaction 
in  either  camp,  Jewish  or  Christian.  It  revelled 
in  the  cantillations  and  employed  as  leading  mo 
tive  the  Shofar,  or  ram's-horn  blown  in  the  syna 
gogues  on  Yom  Kippur  or  the  Day  of  Atonement. 
The  scroll  of  the  Torah  also  appeared.  But  these 
liturgical  references  didn't  offend;  it  was  my  sur 
prising  denunciation  of  Jewish  materialism  in 
New  York  that  was  the  rock  of  offence.  I  say 
surprising,  for  what  is  a  Christian-born  doing  in 
another  field  and  finding  fault?  I'm  sure  I 
can't  say  why,  unless  that  in  writing  the  tale  I 
unconsciously  dramatized  myself  as  a  reproach 
ing  voice.  There  was  much  in  my  strictures  of 
that  son  of  Hanan  who  prowled  through  the 
109 


VARIATIONS 

streets  of  the  Holy  City  in  the  year  A.  D.  62, 
crying  aloud:  "Woe,  woe  upon  Jerusalem!"  I 
remember  that  I  predicted  because  of  the  lux 
ury  of  the  American  Jew  the  lofty  Jewish  ideal 
ism  might  be  submerged  in  a  flood  of  indifference 
and  disbelief.  Prosperity  would  prove  the  snag. 
In  the  heart  of  the  Jew  is  the  true  Zion,  not  in 
success  nor  in  some  far-away  land.  Naturally, 
that  didn't  please  the  Zionists.  One  profes 
sional  Jewish  publication,  no  longer  in  existence, 
said  that  I  preached  like  a  Rabbi  (Reb),  but 
thought  like  a  goi.  The  word  "Chutzpah"  was 
also  used.  Yet,  wasn't  I  right  ?  It  is  the  spiri 
tual  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  the  spirit  of  the  law, 
and  not  the  letter  that  killeth,  which  should  be 
enshrined  in  the  heart  of  the  Jew.  He  may 
dream  of  Palestine,  of  its  skies  of  the  "few  large 
stars,"  a  land  overflowing  with  milk  and  honey; 
but  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  it  is  the  living  God 
to  whom  he  must  go  for  spiritual  sustenance. 
God  the  eternal  reservoir  of  our  earthly  certi 
tudes  !  Schma'  Ysroel ! 


no 


SOCIALISM  AND  MEDIOCRITY 

IN  these  piping  times  of  peace  when  the  body 
politic  is  afflicted  with  socialism,  bolshevism,  and 
other  cutaneous  disorders,  it  is  a  pleasing  and  a 
profitable  task  to  reread  Socialistic  Fallacies,  by 
M.  Yves  Guyot,  who  for  years  has  been  a  deter 
mined  and  consistent  opponent  of  the  bleak  and 
dismal  "science"  and  the  author  of  a  number 
of  books  on  the  subject.  Luckily  for  those  who 
can't  read  French,  Socialistic  Fallacies  has  been 
translated  and  should  prove  a  manual  to  com 
bat  and  confute  the  sophistries  of  socialism  with 
the  writer's  arsenal  of  arguments.  M.  Guyot 
has  been  a  deputy,  a  municipal  councillor,  minis 
ter  of  public  works.  He  advocated  the  revision 
of  the  Dreyfus  case,  and  he  was  political  editor 
of  Le  Siecle  (1892-1903).  He  is  also  editor  of 
Journal  des  Economistes  (since  1909)  and  editor 
of  UAgence  Economique  et  Financieres  (since 
1911).  He  has  written  much  about  the  great 
war  and  its  causes  (also  translated)  and  kindred 
themes.  Therefore  a  man  who  knows  what  he 
is  talking  about. 

In  his  drastic  attack  on  socialistic  fallacies  he 
thus  concludes:  " There  are  three  words  which 
socialism  must  erase  from  the  facades  of  our 
public  buildings,  the  three  words  of  the  repub 
lican  motto:  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity.  Lib- 
in 


VARIATIONS 

erty,  because  socialism  is  a  rule  of  tyranny; 
equality,  because  it  is  a  rule  of  class;  fraternity, 
because  its  policy  is  that  of  class  war."  M. 
Guyot  might  have  quoted  Napoleon,  a  realist, 
a  cynic  in  politics,  for  he  knew  its  seamy  side, 
who  said:  "Tell  men  they  are  equal  and  they 
won't  bother  about  liberty."  And  in  this  mat 
ter  men  may  change,  mankind  never. 

Socialism,  that  word  of  so  many  meanings, 
has  itself  become  meaningless.  Guyot  shows  us 
each  variety,  analyzes  its  particular  fallacy,  and 
though  not  a  victim  to  the  craze  for  statistics, 
he  furnishes  many  pages  of  figures  to  match 
those  of  his  adversaries.  He  attacks  Karl  Marx 
on  his  weakest  flank,  and,  incidentally,  proves 
him  not  to  have  been  a  proletarian,  but  the  son- 
in-law  of  a  Prussian  Junker.  The  selfishness  of 
Marx,  his  tyrannical  behavior,  his  unphilosophi- 
cal  wrath  when  opposed  by  two  such  intellectual 
giants  as  Bakunine  and  Lassalle;  his  jealous  at 
titude  toward  Ferdinand  Lassalle,  especially 
after  his  tragic  death,  are  all  well  known.  These 
traits  do  not  reveal  a  man  overflowing  with  true 
brotherly  love.  Able,  but  frequently  unscru 
pulous,  men  amuse  the  idle  and  attract  the  mul 
titude  —  such  are  the  leaders  of  the  cause  which 
has  made  such  headway  in  Germany,  adds 
Guyot,  whose  words  in  the  light  of  contempo 
raneous  history  are  positively  prophetic.  These 
leaders  are  plagiarists,  with  some  variations,  of 
all  the  communist  romances  originally  inspired 
by  Plato.  Their  greatest  pundits,  Marx  and 
112 


SOCIALISM  AND  MEDIOCRITY 

Engels,  have  built  up  their  theories  upon  a  sen 
tence  of  Saint-Simon  and  three  phrases  of  Ri- 
cardo's.  Our  author  gives  these  examples: 
" German  socialism  is  derived  from  two  sources: 
(i)  The  French  doctrine  of  Saint-Simon,  'The 
way  to  grow  rich  is  to  make  others  work  for 
one/  which  in  Proudhon's  mouth  becomes  'the 
exploitation  of  man  by  man/  (2)  Three  for 
mulas  of  Ricardo,  viz. :  (a)  labor  is  the  measure  of 
value;  (b)  the  price  of  labor  is  that  which  pro 
vides  the  laborer  in  general  with  the  means  of 
subsistence,  and  of  perpetuating  his  species 
without  either  increase  or  diminution;  (c)  profits 
decrease  in  proportion  as  wages  increase." 
Formula  (b)  became  the  "iron  law  of  wages" 
enunciated  by  Lassalle.  Inverted  dogmatism  all 
these  stale  subterfuges. 

The  French  doctrines  and  Ricardo's  three 
formulas  were  transformed  into  the  theory  of 
Rodbertus,  "the  normal  time  of  labor,"  and  the 
"surplus  labor"  theory  of  Karl  Marx  and  Engels. 
Guyot  calmly  demonstrates  the  fallacies  of  these 
sonorous  assumptions.  He  asks  the  where 
abouts  of  the  Utopias  of  Fourier,  of  Cabet,  of 
Louis  Blanc's  organization  of  labor,  or  of  Prou 
dhon's  bank  of  exchange  —  that  Proudhon  who 
has  been  permanently  saddled  with  Brissot's 
famous  phrase:  "Property  is  theft."  (Philo 
sophical  Examination  of  Property  and  Theft, 
1780.)  No  Socialist  has  succeeded  in  explain 
ing  the  conditions  for  the  production,  the  re 
muneration,  and  the  distribution  of  capital  in  a 

"3 


VARIATIONS 

collectivist  system.  No  Socialist  has  succeeded 
in  determining  the  motives  for  action  which  an 
individual  would  obey.  When  pressed  for  an 
answer,  they  allege  that  human  nature  shall  be 
metamorphosed,  but  that  the  individual  re 
mains  a  constant  quantity !  Rank  materialism 
all  this,  and  absolutely  without  vision. 

Socialism  is  a  hierarchy  on  a  military  basis 
imported  from  Germany.  Karl  Marx  did  not 
concern  himself  with  the  incentives  to  action 
which  are  to  be  placed  before  men  in  commu 
nistic  society,  and  his  followers  carefully  evade 
the  question.  When  they  do  attempt  to  deal 
with  it,  they  fall  into  grotesque  errors,  as  did  the 
late  French  leader,  Jaures.  Kautsky  asks  how 
the  workman  is  to  be  made  to  take  an  interest 
in  his  work,  and  he  can  find  no  incentive  other 
than  the  force  of  habit.  Like  mechanical  toys, 
men  will  do  the  same  thing  every  day  because 
they  did  it  the  day  before.  This  is  merely 
teaching  tricks  to  animals,  the  organization  of 
reflex  action  causing  the  individual  mechanically 
to  do  to-morrow  what  he  did  yesterday.  Nor  is 
this  a  discovery  of  scientific  socialism;  the  or 
ganizers  of  churches,  of  armies,  discovered  the 
trait  long  ago,  employing  it  as  a  means  of  dis 
cipline  under  the  sanctions  of  allurement  and 
coercion;  allurement,  by  preferments,  decora 
tions,  and  honorary  distinction;  coercion,  by 
means  of  more  or  less  cruel  and  rigorous  punish 
ments.  Bebel  declared  that  "a  man  who  will 
not  work  has  not  the  right  to  eat."  This  is 
114 


SOCIALISM  AND  MEDIOCRITY 

being  condemned  to  death  by  starvation;  and  a 
man  who  does  less  work  than,  in  the  opinion  of 
the  executive,  he  ought  to  do,  shall  be  put  upon 
a  restricted  diet;  so,  after  all,  the  collectivist 
ideal  ends  in  servile  labor.  To  replace  a  king 
or  a  president  there  will  be  an  "  executive," 
which  means  several  instead  of  one  tyrant. 
Good  old  King  Log  is  always  a  better  ruler  than 
King  Stork.  For  one  thing,  he  is  not  so  vora 
cious  as  the  ferociously  hungry  feathered  biped. 
Socialism,  then,  is  only  one  more  strait-jacket  to 
torture  the  individual. 

It  may  be  said  that  man  is  ready  for  every 
form  of  sacrifice  save  one:  nowhere  and  at  no 
time  has  he  been  found  to  labor  voluntarily  and 
constantly  from  a  disinterested  love  for  others. 
Man  is  only  compelled  to  productive  labor  by 
necessity,  by  the  fear  of  punishment,  or  by  suit 
able  remuneration.  The  Socialists  of  to-day, 
like  those  of  former  times,  constantly  denounce 
the  waste  of  competition.  Competition  involves 
losses,  but  biological  evolution,  as  well  as  hu 
manity,  proves  that  they  are  largely  compen 
sated  by  gain.  Furthermore,  there  is  no  ques 
tion  of  abolishing  competition  in  socialistic  con 
ceptions;  the  question  is  merely  one  of  the  sub 
stitution  of  political  for  economic  competition. 
If  economic  competition  leads  to  waste,  and 
claims  its  victims,  it  is  none  the  less  productive. 
Political  competition  has  secured  enormous 
plunder  to  great  conquerors,  such  as  Alexander, 
Caesar,  Tamerlane,  and  Napoleon;  it  always  de- 

"5 


VARIATIONS 

stroys  more  wealth  than  it  confers  upon  the  vic 
tor.  The  Socialist  formulates  a  theory  of  rob 
bery  and  calls  it  ''restitution  to  the  disinherited." 
Disinherited  by  whom?  Disinherited  of  what? 
Let  them  produce  their  title-deeds!  They  call 
it  expropriation,  but  that  is  a  misnomer;  what 
they  set  out  to  practise  is  confiscation.  Georges 
Bernard  says  that  "  socialism  will  be  a  regime 
of  authority."  On  this  point  Guyot  grimly 
agrees  with  him.  In  reality  it  will  be  the  most 
oppressive  spiritual  and  material  system  ever 
invented  by  man. 

Socialist  action  has  a  depressing  effect  on  all 
fixed  capital,  and,  he  continues,  "in  order  to 
carry  on  a  policy  of  preserving  the  political 
equilibrium,  of  giving  a  few  bones  to  the  dema 
gogues  to  gnaw,  concessions  are  made  to  the 
policy  of  spoliation."  What,  then,  remains  of 
socialism  when  we  come  to  close  quarters  with 
it?  And  what  are  the  prospects  of  this  spolia 
tion  and  tyranny  ?  The  socialistic  party  cannot 
balance  up  a  governmental  majority  without 
destroying  government  itself,  for  it  cannot  ad 
mit  that  government  fulfils  the  minimum  of  its 
duties  (this  was  written  before  1914).  When  a 
strike  breaks  out  the  intention  of  the  strikers  is 
that  security  of  person  and  property  shall  not 
be  guaranteed.  Socialist  policy  represents  con 
tempt  for  law,  and  all  men,  whether  rich  or 
poor,  have  an  interest  in  liberty,  security,  and 
justice,  as  the  private  interest  of  each  individual 
is  bound  up  with  these  common  blessings.  But 
116 


SOCIALISM  AND  MEDIOCRITY' 

Socialists  despise  them  all.  "The  socialism  of 
Karl  Marx's  disciples  betrays  a  long  apprentice 
ship  to  servitude,"  declares  M.  Reinach. 

A  law,  the  object  of  which  is  to  protect  each 
man's  property,  is  supported  by  all  who  possess 
anything,  and  where  is  the  man  in  advanced 
societies  who  is  incapable  of  being  robbed  be 
cause  he  possesses  nothing? 

A  law  of  spoliation  may  be  passed  and  carried 
into  effect,  but  in  the  event  of  its  results  be 
coming  permanent  it  runs  the  risk  of  destroying 
the  government  which  has  assumed  the  respon 
sibility  of  it.  Socialist  policy  is  a  permanent 
menace  to  the  liberty  and  security  of  citizens, 
and,  therefore,  cannot  be  the  policy  of  any  gov 
ernment,  the  primary  duty  of  which  is  to  exact 
respect  for  internal  and  external  security.  If  it 
fail  therein  it  dissolves  and  is  replaced  by  an 
archy;  and,  inasmuch  as  every  one  has  a  horror 
of  that  condition,  which  betrays  itself  by  the 
oppression  of  violent  men  banded  together 
solely  by  their  appetites,  an  appeal  is  made  to 
a  strong  government  and  to  a  man  with  a  strong 
grip,  and  then  the  risk  is  incurred  of  relapsing 
into  all  the  disgraces  and  disasters  of  Caesarism. 
In  several  sections  of  this  admirable  work,  M. 
Guyot  scrutinizes  the  various  Utopias  from 
Plato  to  Proudhon:  Sir  Thomas  More,  the  King 
dom  of  the  Incas,  Campanella,  the  Jesuits  in 
Paraguay,  Moselly,  Robert  Owen,  Fourier,  the 
American  Phalanx,  the  Oneida  Community, 
Cabet,  the  Icarians,  and  other  unsuccessful  ex- 
117 


VARIATIONS 

perimenters.  Utopia  is  always  within  sight,  but 
never  reached.  It  is,  in  the  charming  parlance 
of  the  hour,  a  pipe-dream;  these  Utopias  always 
cut  their  throats  to  spite  their  thirst.  And  pre 
cisely  where  socialism  was  expected  to  be  a 
buffer  against  world  wars,  it  dismally  failed. 

From  time  to  time  the  everlasting  busybody 
asks  himself  why  a  plea  for  mediocrity  is  not  a 
fitting  theme  to  interest  ambitious  essayists. 
Supermen  and  supper-rogues  have  been  done  to 
the  death  in  print,  yet  few  words  are  accorded  to 
the  garden  variety  of  the  human  plant.  Instead 
we  are  keyed  to  the  loftiest  pitch;  exaggeration 
is  a  national  neurosis.  We  are  all  professional 
altruists,  and,  as  every  one  knows,  altruism  is  the 
art  of  making  our  neighbor  unhappy  because  of 
our  oppressive  happiness.  And  yet  not  a  word 
for  mediocrity,  which  is  the  backbone  of  our 
nation,  the  staple  of  its  political,  artistic,  and 
literary  productions.  Not  a  word  for  the  man 
in  the  street,  whose  collective  opinion  —  King 
Opinion,  the  most  despotic  of  tyrants  —  rules 
us,  whose  vote  counts  heavier  than  the  vote  of 
the  "exceptional"  being  perched  on  the  house 
top.  (A  majority  of  exalted  souls  would  turn 
America  into  a  wilderness.)  And  all  because 
the  excellent  word  "mediocrity"  is  become  de 
based  in  meaning.  At  one  time  it  stood  for 
the  golden  mean,  for  a  happy  equilibrium  of 
forces,  moral  and  physical.  It  spelled  happiness 
to  its  possessor  —  we  refer  to  the  mediocre  tem 
perament  —  and  if  a  man  had  enough  money  to 
118 


SOCIALISM  AND  MEDIOCRITY 

keep  the  wolf  from  the  door  he  was  content. 
That  is  the  precise  word  —  content;  to  be  con 
tented  is  a  gift  of  the  gods.  But  to  us  nowadays 
it  means  that  you  are  merely  commonplace, 
without  social  ambitions,  without  intellectual 
eminence.  And  this  is  not  well. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  we  are  a  united 
nation  of  over  one  hundred  millions  of  people, 
we  are  each  in  his  own  fashion  endeavoring  to 
escape  the  imputation  of  mediocrity.  Alas!  in 
vain.  Number  is  mediocrity.  We  think  and 
drink  to  order,  vote  as  we  are  bidden  by  our 
wives,  and  wear  the  clothes  given  us  by  destroy 
ers  of  sartorial  taste.  Wherefore,  then,  this 
mad  desire  to  be  exceptional?  Whence  this  op 
timism  that  shudders  in  the  presence  of  genuine 
art  and  espouses  the  vulgar  because  it  better 
agrees  with  fat  nerves?  Let  us  acknowledge 
the  truth.  It  is  because,  happily  for  us,  we  are 
all  mediocre;  because  genius  is  not  a  normal  con 
dition  of  humanity,  and  that  talent  is  much  less 
rare  than  our  national  vanity  admits.  However, 
let  us  pluck  up  courage.  The  future  —  which 
is  said  by  some  to  belong  to  socialism  —  will 
work  out  the  problem  of  mediocrity,  especially 
if  socialism  is  involved;  mediocrity  and  socialism 
are  not  poles  asunder.  Concrete  houses  filled 
with  people  who  will  eat,  drink,  and  think  alike 
will  cover  the  land.  Everything  will  be  of  con 
crete,  even  our  political  opinions.  In  his  con 
crete  Capitol  a  concrete  President  will  devise 
concrete  laws.  Art,  music,  and  literature  will 
119 


VARIATIONS 

be  so  concrete  that  our  native  Gradgrinds,  hun 
gry  for  hard  facts,  will  be  ravished  into  the 
seventh  concrete  heaven.  Made  a  law,  medi 
ocrity  will  do  away  with  our  present  mortifying 
doubts,  deceptions,  and  pretensions.  O  Happy 
Time !  And  this  coming  age  of  concrete,  wherein 
all  must  walk  and  look  alike,  is  it  not  a  dream 
compared  with  which  Dante's  Inferno  would  be 
a  Garden  of  Armida? 

Said  a  great  poet-philosopher:  "And  many  a 
man  has  gone  into  the  desert  and  suffered  from 
thirst  with  the  camels  rather  than  sit  about  the 
cistern  with  dirty  camel  drivers."  No  wonder 
William  James  wrote  that  "the  whole  atmos 
phere  of  present-day  Utopian  literature  tastes 
mawkish  and  dish-watery  to  people  who  still 
keep  a  sense  of  life's  more  bitter  flavors."  And 
how  much  more  that  is  insipid  and  mawkish  will 
follow  under  socialistic  regimentation!  "Is  it 
not  the  chief  disgrace  in  the  world  not  to  be  a 
unit;  to  be  reckoned  one  character;  not  to  yield 
that  peculiar  fruit  which  each  man  was  created 
to  bear,  but  to  be  reckoned  in  the  gross,  in  the 
hundreds  of  thousands,  of  the  party,  of  the  sec 
tion  to  which  we  belong,  and  our  opinion  pre 
dicted  geographically  as  the  North  or  the 
South?"  These  words  were  not  uttered  by  a 
Socialist;  they  emanated  from  the  crystal-clear 
intellect  of  our  greatest  Individualist,  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson. 


1 20 


CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS? 

RATHER  hotly  I  argued  the  question  with  my 
editor:  "After  all,  music  critics  are  men  and 
brethren,"  I  said.  " Except  when  they  are  sis 
ters,"  he  ironically  interposed.  I  sternly  re 
sisted  a  temptation  to  blush,  and  continued: 
"Because  I  love  Chopin  must  I  forever  write 
of  his  music  —  toujours  perdrix !  It's  an  in 
digestion  of  strawberries,  clotted  cream,  and 
green-eyes.  I'm  suffering  from  spring-fever. 
Let  me  write  a  story  about  the  circus."  "Why 
not  Ibsen?"  interposed  my  editor,  who  is  subtle 
or  nothing.  "He  was  a  grand  man,"  I  assented, 
"but  in  the  present  case  he  is  only  a  red-herring 
across  the  trail.  Suppose  I  mix  up  Chopin  with 
sawdust  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  melange?" 
My  chief  assented,  wearily.  There  are  more 
important  problems  on  the  carpet  than  Chopin. 

Had  I  ever  been  to  the  circus  ?  What  a  singu 
lar  question!  Yet,  yet — !  No,  I  confessed  to 
myself,  I  had  not  been  to  the  circus  for  at  least 
three  decades.  Critics  are  tame  cats  away  from 
their  regular  guests.  In  the  concert  room  or  at 
the  play,  armed  with  our  little  hammers,  we 
are  as  brave  as  plumbers;  but  on  a  roof  garden, 
in  church,  at  a  circus,  or  innocently  slumbering, 
we  are  the  mildest  gang  of  pirates  that  ever  scut- 
121 


VARIATIONS 

tied  an  American  sonata  or  forced  ambitious 
leading  ladies  to  walk  the  plank.  We  may  go 
alone  to  the  theatre  with  impunity  and  another 
fellow's  girl,  but  at  the  circus  we  need  a  nurse 
to  show  us  the  ropes  and  keep  us  from  falling 
under  the  elephants'  hoofs.  I  know,  because 
I  went  one  Sunday  night  to  the  Hippodrome 
and  liked  John  McCormack's  singing  immensely; 
so  much  indeed  that  I  forgot  to  criticise  and 
nearly  fell  over  the  edge  of  the  box,  so  uncriti 
cally  did  I  applaud.  A  private  nurse  —  not 
necessarily  old  —  say  I  is  the  only  safety  for  a 
critic  out  of  his  element;  otherwise  a  sense  of 
the  dignity  of  our  calling  is  not  maintained. 

Therefore,  I  swallowed  my  Chopin  scheme 
without  undue  fervor  and  went  to  the  circus. 
No  matter  which  one.  All  circuses  are  in  an 
attractive  key  to  me.  Thackeray  said  the  same 
thing  about  the  play,  and  said  it  better.  Any 
circus  will  serve  as  a  peg  for  my  sawdust  sym 
bolism.  Any  Garden  will  do,  so  that  it  has  a 
capitalized  initial  letter.  (No  allusion  to  Magi 
cal  Mary.)  The  circus !  What  a  corrective  for 
the  astringent  Ibsen  or  the  morbidezza  of  Sar- 
matia's  sweet  singer,  Chopin !  The  circus !  It 
is  a  revelation.  One  thing  I  regretted  —  that  I 
could  not  be  a  boy  again,  with  dirty  hands,  a 
shining  brow,  and  a  heart  brimming  over  with 
joy.  Peter  Pan!  Oh!  to  recapture  that  first 
careless  rapture,  as  Browning  or  some  other 
writing  Johnny  said;  surely  he  must  have  meant 
the  circus,  which  is  the  one  spot  on  our  muddy 
122 


CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS? 

planet  where  rapture  rhymes  with  the  sawdust 
ring. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  Hedda  Gabler?"  I 
asked  of  the  Finland  giantess.  We  were  wedged 
in  front  of  the  long  platform  at  the  Garden, 
upon  which  were  the  Missing  Link,  the  Snake- 
Enchantress,  the  Lion-Faced  Boy,  the  English 
Fat  Girl  —  so  fat  —  the  Human  Skeleton,  the 
Welsh  Giant,  the  Lilliputians,  tattooed  men,  a 
man  with  an  iron  skull,  dancers,  jugglers,  gun- 
spinners,  "lady"  musicians,  and  the  three- 
legged  boy.  Eternal  types  at  the  circus.  The 
noise  was  terrific,  the  air  dense  with  the  aura 
of  unwashed  humanity.  This  aura  was  twin 
to  the  aura  in  a  monkey  house.  But  I  enjoyed 
my  "bath  of  multitude,"  as  Charles  Baudelaire 
names  it,  and  I  should  not  have  bothered  the 
tall  creature  with  such  an  inept  question.  She 
coldly  regarded  me: 

"No,  I  haven't  seen  Hedda  to-day,  but  I  re 
member  George  Tesman  always  teased  her  with 
one  question,  'What  do  you  know  about  that, 
Hed?J  Shoo!  Sardou  for  mine."  "Do  you 
read  George  Blarney  Shaw?"  I  persisted.  "He 
ought  to  be  in  a  cage  here.  He  would  draw 
some  crowds.  But  I'm  told  he  lives  in  Germany 
now  on  account  of  the  beer."  I  backed  away 
quickly  as  an  East  Side  family  consisting  of  a 
baker's  dozen,  would  allow.  Why  had  I  asked 
such  a  question  of  a  perfect  stranger?  This 
giantess,  I  mused  before  the  rhinoceros  with  the 
double  prongs,  is  Finnish.  That's  why  she  knew 
123 


VARIATIONS 

the  name  of  Hedda  Gabler.  Why  didn't  I  speak 
of  Rosmersholm  ?  Rebecca  West  had  Finnish 
blood  in  her  veins.  Careful,  careful  —  this 
Ibsen  obsession  must  be  surmounted,  else  I  shall 
be  inquiring  of  the  giraffe  if  neck  or  nothing  is 
the  symbol  of  Brand.  All  or  Nothing !  of  course. 
How  stupid  of  me.  Among  the  animals  I  re 
gained  my  equilibrium.  Their  odors  evoked 
memories.  Yes,  I  recalled  the  old-time  circus, 
with  its  compact  pitched  canvas  tent  on  North 
Broad  Street,  Philadelphia:  the  pink  lemonade, 
the  hoarse  voice  of  the  man  who  entreated  us 
to  buy  tickets  —  there  were  no  megaphones  in 
those  days  —  the  crisp  crackling  of  the  roasting 
peanuts,  the  ovens  revolved  by  the  man  from 
Ravenna,  the  man  from  Ascoli,  and  the  man  from 
Milan.  They  followed  the  circus  all  the  way 
from  Point  Breeze,  and  I  swear  they  were  to  me 
far  more  human  than  the  policemen  who  gently 
whacked  us  with  their  clubs  when  we  crawled 
under  the  tent. 

The  sense  of  smell  is  first  aid  to  memory. 
As  I  passed  the  cages  saluting  our  pre-Adamic 
relatives,  bidding  the  time  of  day  to  the  zebu, 
nodding  in  a  debonair  fashion  to  the  yak,  I 
could  not  help  longing  for  my  first  circus. 
Again  I  saw  myself  sitting  in  peaceful  agony  on 
a  splintery  plank;  again  I  felt  the  slaps  and 
pinches  of  my  tender-hearted  Aunt  Sue  —  now 
in  Paradise,  I  hope;  again  my  heart  tugged  like 
a  balloon  at  its  moorings  as  the  clowns  jumped 
into  the  ring,  grimacing,  chortling,  and  fascinat- 
124 


CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS? 

ing  us  with  their  ludicrous  inhumanity.  Again 
we  sat,  a  lot  of  noisy  rapscallions,  on  the  stoop 
of  Edwin  Forrest's  home  —  the  old  Forrest  man 
sion  is  still  on  the  west  side  of  Broad  Street  — • 
and  how  we  tumbled  to  the  sidewalk  when  that 
terrific  tragedian  opened  the  door  and  trans 
fixed  us  with  his  glittering  glance.  I  can  still 
see  his  leonine  head  with  its  shock  of  iron-gray 
curls,  his  exposed  bull-neck,  and  hear  his  angry 
roar:  "Get  to  blank  out  of  here,  you  blankety- 
blanks ! "  It  was  the  giant's  voice  of  Metamora, 
Coriolanus,  Lear  that  we  heard,  an  echo  from 
the  grand  period  in  the  history  of  the  American 
theatre;  but  we  didn't  know  that.  We  were 
mischievous  boys,  and  made  mock  of  the  mighty 
Edwin,  no  doubt  adding  insult  to  injury  by 
twiddling  derisive  thumbs  at  our  noses. 

Other  days,  other  ways.  I  sighed  as  I  tore 
myself  loose  from  the  prehensile  trunk  of  a  too 
friendly  baby  elephant  and  passed  into  the  huge 
auditorium  where  Gilmore  had  played.  Ah! 
the  sad,  bad,  glad,  dear,  dead,  tiresome,  poverty- 
stricken,  beautiful  days  when  we  were  young 
imbeciles  and  held  hands  with  a  fresh  " ideal" 
every  week  (sometimes  two).  Ah!  the  senti 
mental  "jag"  induced  by  peanut  eating,  and 
the  chaste,  odoriferous  apes. 

It  is  time.  We  seat  ourselves.  I  look  about 
me.  Two  resplendent  gentlemen  wearing  eve 
ning  clothes  at  high  noon,  after  the  daring  man 
ner  of  our  Gallic  cousins,  toll  a  bell.  I  became 
excited.  Why  those  three  and  thirty  strokes? 

125 


VARIATIONS 

What  the  symbolism !  Chopin,  or  Ibsen;  again, 
I  groaned,  and  turned  my  attention  to  my 
neighbors,  one  of  whom  I  could  feel,  though 
did  not  see.  I  raised  my  voice,  employing  cer 
tain  vocables  hardly  fit  to  print.  The  effect 
was  magical.  "  Johnny,  take  your  feet  out  of 
the  gentleman's  collar.  That's  a  good  boy." 
It  was  the  soothing  voice  of  a  mother.  Bless  her 
clairvoyance!  I  sat  comfortably  back  in  my 
seat.  Johnny  howled  at  the  interference  with 
his  pleasure.  I  felt  sorrow  for  him.  Childhood 
is  ever  individualistic,  even  pragmatic.  But  I 
only  had  one  collar  with  me,  and  it  was  well  the 
matter  thus  ended. 

Hurrah !  Here  they  come !  A  goodly  band. 
The  clowns !  the  clowns !  Some  hieratic  owl  of 
wisdom  has  called  the  clown  the  epitome  of  man 
kind.  He  certainly  stands  for  something,  this 
"  full-fledged  fool,"  as  good  old  Tody  Hamilton 
used  to  write,  and  "surcharged  with  the  Roe 
of  Fun,"  which  phrase  beats  Delaware  shad. 
Odds  fish!  There  was  only  one  Hamilton. 
What  a  Rabelaisian  list  of  names  boast  these 
merry  clowns !  If  the  years  have  passed  over 
the  skulls  of  these  lively  rascals,  jolly  boys  do 
not  show  them.  The  same  squeaks,  the  iden 
tical  yodling,  the  funny  yet  sinister  expression 
of  the  eyes,  the  cruel,  red-slitted  mouths  —  not 
a  day  older  than  ten  did  I  seem  as  they  came 
tumbling  in  and  began  their  horse-play,  punctu 
ated  with  yelling,  yahoo  gestures,  ribald  ejacula 
tions,  and  knockabout  diversions.  It  must  all 
126 


CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS? 

mean  something,  this  hooting,  in  the  economy 
of  the  universe,  else  "life  is  a  suck  and  a  sell," 
as  Walt  Whitman  puts  it.  As  in  a  dream-mirror 
I  saw  Solness  slowly  mount  the  fatal  tower  when 
Hilda  Wangel  cries  to  him:  "My  —  my  Master- 
builder!"  She  sings  The  Maiden's  Wish,  and 
he  hears  the  harps  of  Chopin  hum  in  the  air.  I 
rub  my  ears.  It  is  not  Hilda  who  is  crying,  but 
a  pet  pig  in  a  baby  carriage,  wheeled  by  a  chalk- 
faced  varlet.  How  difficult  it  is  to  escape  the 
hallucinations  of  the  critical  profession.  I 
couldn't  forget  Chopin  or  Ibsen  even  at  the 
circus. 

It  was  with  relief,  after  more  bellmanship 
from  the  man  with  the  shiny  silk  hat  and  spiked 
coat,  as  the  elephants  majestically  entered. 
Followed  the  horses.  Tumblers  and  wire- 
walkers,  women  who  stood  on  their  heads  and 
smiled  —  as  they  do  in  life.  Something  like  the 
"inverted  pyramid,"  as  James  Hinton  called 
modern  civilization  —  plastic  poseurs,  Oriental 
jugglers,  the  show  was  let  loose  at  last.  Human 
projectiles  were  launched  through  midair  to  the 
tap  of  a  drum.  My  nerves  forbade  me  to  look 
at  them,  so  I  read  a  programme  advertisement 
of  wall-paper  for  bathrooms.  Some  people  like 
such  horrible  sights.  I  do  not.  They  dare  not 
precisely  formulate  to  themselves  the  wish  that 
"something"  would  happen,  and  when  it  does 
they  shudder  with  sadistic  joy.  I  close  my  eyes 
when  the  Whirl  of  Death  or  any  other  sensational 
act  is  staged.  "Something"  might  happen. 
127 


VARIATIONS 

The  mad  dancers  delight  our  rhythmic  sense 
as  they  make  marvellous  arabesques.  The 
chariot  races  stir  the  blood.  The  crash  around 
curves,  the  patters  of  gleaming  metal  excite  so 
that  you  stand  up,  and,  brushing  the  feet  of 
inevitable  Johnny  from  your  neck  (notwith 
standing  his  remonstrances),  you  shout  with 
woolly  mouth  and  husky  voice.  Instinctively 
you  turn  down  your  thumbs:  "Pollice  verso," 
which  Bayard  Taylor  translated  "the  perverse 
police."  You  remember  the  Ger6me  painting? 

"This  beats  Ibsen,"  I  hilariously  exclaimed  to 
Johnny's  mother.  (She  was  a  comely  matron.) 
"His  name  is  John,  and  when  he  gets  home  his 
father  will  beat  him,"  she  tartly  replied.  With 
the  prevoyance  of  boyhood  Johnny  burst  into 
despairing  howls.  I  at  once  folded  up  my  mind. 
A  million  things  were  happening  in  the  haze  of 
the  many  rings.  The  New  Circus  is  polyphonic, 
or  nothing. 

Enough !  Filled  to  the  eyes  with  the  dis 
tracting  spectacle,  ear-drums  fatigued  by  the 
blare  and  bang  of  the  monster  brass  band,  my 
collar  quite  wilted  by  Johnny's  shoemaker,  my 
temper  in  rags  because  of  the  panting,  struggling 
army  of  fellow-beings,  I  reached  the  avenue 
in  safety,  perspiring,  thirsty,  unhappy.  Like 
Stendhal,  after  his  first  and  eagerly  longed-for 
battle  of  love,  I  exclaimed:  "Is  that  all?"  In 
sooth,  it  had  been  too  much.  The  human  sen- 
sorium  is  savagely  assaulted  at  the  twentieth- 
century  circus.  I  was  in  pessimistic  enough 
128 


CHOPIN  OR  THE  CIRCUS? 

humor  to  regret  the  single  ring,  the  antique 
japes  of  a  solitary  clown,  and  the  bewitching 
horsemanship  of  Mile.  Leonie,  with  her  gauze 
skirts  and  perpetual  rictus.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
we  wouldn't  endure  for  five  minutes  the  old- 
fashioned  circus  and  its  tepid  lemonade.  Where 
are  the  mullygrubs  of  yesteryear?  But  the 
human  heart  is  perverse.  It  always  longs  for 
the  penny  and  the  cake  in  company,  while  in 
eluctable  destiny  ever  separates  them.  Perhaps 
my  editor  was  right.  Render  unto  Chopin  the 
things  that  are  Chopin's;  send  Ibsen  back  to  his 
Land  of  the  Midnight  Whiskers.  Smell  the 
sawdust  at  the  Garden,  not  forgetting  that  the 
chilly,  dry  days  are  at  hand  when  even  Panem 
et  Circenses  shall  be  taboo;  when  pipe  and  prog 
and  grog  will  be  banned;  when  these  United 
States  shall  have  been  renamed  Puritania;  when 
a  fanatically  selfish  minority  shall  take  all  the 
joy  from  life.  Ergo,  carpe  diem !  I  thank  you. 


129 


ART  AND  ALCOHOL 

WHAT  will  be  the  reactions  among  artistic 
men  and  women  summarily  deprived  of  wine  and 
malt  beverages  ?  I  asked  this  of  Manager  Gatti- 
Casazza  the  other  day  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House.  He  is  not  a  drinking  man,  but  the  con 
temptuous  shrug  of  his  shoulders  showed  me 
his  position  in  the  thrice-vexed  controversy. 
Singers,  one  and  all,  are  accustomed  to  mild 
alcoholic  refreshment.  If  they  go  beyond 
bounds  the  effect  on  their  voices  is  soon  made 
manifest,  but  usually  being  foreign-born,  they 
have  been  in  the  habit  of  drinking  light  wines 
at  meal  time,  perhaps  beer  after  a  performance, 
for  good  beer  relaxes  nerve-tension.  People 
don't  drink  beer  to  become  intoxicated;  they 
drink  it  because  it  lets  down  the  pressure  of  a 
day's  work  better  than  whiskey  or  wine.  Beer 
is  not  an  intoxicant;  it  is  a  depressant.  The  cry 
that  "the  workingman  must  have  his  beer"  is 
far  too  exclusive.  The  professional  man,  the 
brain-worker,  needs  beer,  and  the  singer  or  mu 
sician  —  sometimes  singers  are  not  musicians !  — 
after  a  nerve-exhausting  performance  finds  in 
wine  or  beer  a  veritable  solace.  Matthew  Ar 
nold  wrote  that  the  American  funny  man  was  a 
national  calamity.  What  would  he  have  said 
to  the  plans  of  certain  misguided  females  to 

130 


ART  AND  ALCOHOL 

found  " recreation  centres"  where,  after  eight 
hours'  exhausting  daily  grind,  the  workman 
could  listen  to  " instructive  reading"  —  ye  gods ! 
—  and  drink  non-alcoholic  beverages  (super- 
taxed?).  Little  wonder  Bolshevism  is  growing 
apace  in  an  America  that  soon  will  be  a  vast 
Dry  Tortugas. 

In  one  of  hsr  always  interesting  novels  Ger 
trude  Atherton  depicts  a  poet  whose  inspiration 
dried  up  when  he  stopped  drinking.  Swinburne 
is  said  to  have  been  Mrs.  Atherton Js  model; 
when  the  English  poet  ceased  his  cognac  his 
muse  did  not  fly  far  afterward.  If  he  had  not 
become  temperate  in  regard  to  spirituous  liquors 
the  greatest  Victorian  poet  would  have  died. 
Walter  Savage  Landor,  and  after  him  Byron, 
wrote  that  brandy  is  a  drink  fit  only  for  heroes. 
The  puny  physique  of  Swinburne  could  ill  brook 
alcoholic  excesses.  His  friend  and  protector, 
Theodore  Watts-Dunton,  literally  saved  the 
effervescent  Algernon  Charles  from  sudden 
death.  As  a  rule  lyric  poets  need  no  stimulant. 
Youth  is  the  propulsive  force  to  their  lyricism. 
If  Byron  drank  heavily  at  times,  Shelley  was 
ever  a  water-drinker.  No  rules  can  be  formu 
lated.  There  is  Bernard  Shaw,  the  "Uncle 
Gurnemanz"  and  venerable  busybody  of  inter 
national  politics.  He  is  a  fierce  teetotaler.  He 
has  confessed  that  family  reasons  prompted  him 
to  become  so,  although  Archdale  Reid  in  Hered 
ity  has  shown  that  acquired  traits  are  not  in 
herited;  that  the  children  of  drunkards  are  sel- 


VARIATIONS 

dom  drunkards  (prohibitionists  declare  the  op 
posite,  but  figures  can  be  made  to  lie).  By  the 
same  token  the  sons  of  clergymen  are  not  often 
pious.  Nature  abhors  uniformity.  If  Shaw 
had  taken  his  ale  like  the  British  workmen  he 
harangues,  he  would  not  have  been  the  pestifer 
ous  nuisance  he  is  to-day.  But,  like  all  "re 
formers,"  "uplifters,"  and  public  nuisances,  he 
has  a  weak  stomach.  Because  he  is  virtuous !  - 
the  motto  of  all  these  Malvolios,  these  tailless 
foxes.  Mind  your  own  business !  Ah !  that's 
the  true  golden  rule.  There  would  be  no  wars 
if  this  custom  prevailed. 

The  late  Lombroso-Levi,  formulator  of  many 
ingenious  and  amusing  theories  concerning  the 
stigmata  of  genius,  has  collected  some  names  of 
men  who  drank,  nevertheless  who  contrived  to 
leave  the  world  in  their  debt  for  their  art.  Max 
Nordau  followed  his  "master"  with  his  absurd 
tome  on  Degeneration,  and  then  the  system, 
chiefly  framed  for  imbeciles,  quite  collapsed. 
Professor  William  James  sent  the  cardboard 
structure  into  thin  air  when  he  revealed  its  nu 
merous  inconsistencies.  Any  stigma  applicable 
to  genius  or  talent  may  be  found  in  your  shoe 
maker,  butcher,  or  policeman,  from  megalomania 
to  alcoholism,  from  faun-like  ears  with  attached 
lobes  to  an  unholy  greed  for  other  people's 
money.  Let  us  look  at  Lombroso's  list  of  al 
coholic  men  of  genius.  He  writes  that  Alex 
ander  died  after  having  emptied  ten  times  the 
goblet  of  Hercules  (some  thirst !).  Julius  Caesar 
132 


ART  AND  ALCOHOL 

was  often  carried  home  on  the  shoulders  of  his 
friends  —  so  was  a  certain  highest  dignitary  in 
the  United  States  during  the  last  century,  and 
a  mediocrity  he  was.  Socrates,  Seneca,  Alcibi- 
ades,  Cato,  Peter  the  Great,  the  Czarina  Cath 
erine  were  notorious  boozers.  Tiberius  Nero 
was  nicknamed  Biberius  Mero.  Septimius  Seve- 
rus  and  Mahomet  II  died  in  delirium  tremens. 
Jan  Steen  and  Frans  Hals  were  heavy  imbibers. 
Hals,  who  lived  to  an  advanced  age  and  painted 
masterpieces  to  the  last,  was  drunk  every  night. 
So  was  Monticelli,  absinthe  proving  his  ruin. 
George  Morland  drank,  and  Turner,  too;  both 
drank  to  excess.  As  for  the  poets  and  literary 
men,  the  litany  is  long.  Henry  Murger,  Gerard 
de  Nerval,  Alfred  de  Musset,  Kleist,  Poe,  Hoff 
mann,  Addison,  Steele,  Carew,  Sheridan,  Burns, 
Charles  Lamb,  James  Thomson,  Hartley  Cole 
ridge,  James  Clarence  Mangan,  Ernest  Dowson, 
Swinburne  — Rossetti,  who  drugged  —  and  Cole 
ridge,  De  Quincey  and  Mme.  de  Stael  abused 
opium. 

In  the  domain  of  music  examples  are  as  thick 
as  bombs  were  at  Verdun.  Handel  swallowed 
a  mighty  amount  of  firewater,  for  he  was  a 
mighty  man.  Gluck  drank  far  more  than  was 
good  for  him.  It  was  a  pleasing  habit  of  his  to 
have  a  harpsichord  placed  in  some  pretty  rural 
spot,  where,  with  a  regiment  of  bottles,  he  played 
and  composed.  He  died,  so  it  is  said,  of  brandy. 
Tasso  drank,  Baudelaire  drugged  and  drank,  and 
Lenau,  poet,  died  from  alcohol.  Mozart  and 

133 


VARIATIONS 

Beethoven  abused  wine.  Beethoven  was  often 
"a  little  how  come  ye  so!"  Modern  instances 
multiply.  Singers,  players,  actors,  authors, 
composers  —  how  many  there  are  about  whose 
heads  is  the  aura  of  alcoholism !  Alcohol  has 
been  the  nursing  bottle  of  genius,  and  of  many 
commonplace  citizens  may  not  the  same  be  said  ? 
Woe  to  him  who  abuses  the  priceless  gift.  He 
is  doomed.  And  doomed,  too,  is  the  prohibi 
tionist  who  overindulges  in  flapjacks  and  fried 
steak.  Native  cookery  has  slain  more  than  the 
rum  mills  of  the  universe.  And  notwithstand 
ing  our  vaunted  cosmopolitanism,  a  natural  out 
come  of  the  great  war,  the  village  pump  is  to 
be  our  national  Totem.  Butchered  to  make  a 
prohibitionist  holiday;  that  prohibition  which 
has  elevated  " legislation"  to  the  dignity  of  a 
sport. 

Richard  Wagner  possessed  an  irritable  stomach, 
but  was  comforted  by  a  glass  of  good  wine  (as 
apparently  was  St.  Paul).  Walt  Whitman 
neither  smoked  nor  drank.  Poor  Guy  de  Mau 
passant  began  with  wine,  and,  in  the  wake  of 
erotic  excesses,  he  resorted  to  opium,  even  to 
ether,  which  he  would  put  on  his  handkerchief 
and  apply  to  his  nostrils.  Such  a  hatred  of 
reality  was  his !  He  well  deserved  the  appella 
tion  of  "Taureau  triste,"  as  he  was  surly  toward 
the  end  of  a  brilliant  career.  Flaubert,  like 
Zola,  was  chary  of  excess,  except  in  literary 
work.  Be  chaste  in  your  life  that  you  may  be 
violent  in  your  art !  he  enjoined  de  Maupassant. 

134 


ART  AND  ALCOHOL 

Turgenieff,  Daudet,  Huysmans,  Gounod,  Gon- 
court,  were  not  alcoholic.  Bizet,  it  is  said,  died 
of  absinthe,  not  of  disappointment  over  the  fail 
ure  of  Carmen;  which  didn't  fail,  as  Philip  Hale 
has  shown  us.  Goethe  was  wild  in  his  youth, 
drank  wine,  pursued  the  golden  girl,  yet  he 
cannot  by  any  stretch  of  imagination  be  placed 
in  the  ranks  of  the  drunkards.  The  alcoholic 
neurosis  exists  in  the  individual,  who  drinks  be 
cause  he  is  neurotic,  and  is  not  necessarily  neu 
rotic  because  he  is  a  drunkard.  As  usual,  the 
prohibitionists  have  put  the  cart  before  the  horse, 
being  ignorant,  or  pretending  to  be,  of  facts  dis 
closed  by  modern  biological  research.  These 
fanatics  suffer  from  what  might  be  called  psy 
chical  dandruff. 

What  am  I  trying  to  prove?  Nothing.  Al 
cohol  inspired  or  spurred  on  these  men,  and  we 
are  the  inheritors  of  their  visions.  Naturally, 
to  the  boneheads  who  engineer  reforms,  all  art 
is  dangerous,  is  immoral.  Art,  like  religion,  is 
also  an  opiate.  God  made  the  dawn,  but  the 
devil  invented  the  evening.  The  Seven  Arts 
are  the  invention  of  men  in  revolt  against  the 
tedium  of  life.  Killing  time  is  only  killing  one's 
self,  for  we  are  crucified  at  the  crossroads  of 
Time  and  Space  (with  the  Button-Moulder  lurk 
ing  around  the  corner).  To  escape  the  eternal 
ennui  man  created  the  arts,  and  music,  the  most 
soothing  of  the  seven,  has  drugged  his  dreams 
and  made  fantastic  the  rude  angles  of  concrete 
life.  Perhaps  music  is  only  a  majestic  noise. 

135 


VARIATIONS 

Sometimes  it  bruises  the  soul  as  do  bells  the  air. 
It  can  retire  majestically  into  the  recesses  of  the 
imagination,  like  the  faint  roar  of  surf  withdrawn 
on  the  beach  of  Time.  It  may  be  a  ballet  for 
triphammers  or  as  splendidly  sonorous  as  the 
color  chords  of  Picasso  or  the  tortured  mecha 
nisms  of  Marcel  Duchamps.  But  always  an 
opiate,  a  consoler. 

The  truth  is  that  our  existence  without  some 
buffer  between  our  naked  souls  and  the  chill 
wind  of  empty  spiritual  space  would  be  incon 
ceivable.  Man  devised  Time  and  Space  — 
symbols  of  his  terrifying  ignorance  in  the  pres 
ence  of  eternity  —  and  religion  and  the  arts 
wherewith  he  might  cloak  his  nakedness.  All 
the  rest  is  vanity.  Prohibition  is  only  a  symp 
tom  of  the  everlasting  propensity  of  intolerant 
minds  to  fashion  others  after  their  own  mean 
image.  There  is  no  need  to  worry  over  it. 
Like  other  tyrannical  devices  to  enslave  the  will 
of  mankind,  it  will  be  tested,  found  wanting,  and 
dropped.  And  the  best  way  to  hasten  the  de 
cease  is  to  enforce  rigidly  the  law.  But  come 
what  may,  art  and  alcohol  are  inseparably 
wedded,  as  in  the  Greek  myth  Apollo  and  Diony- 
sos  imaged  beauty  and  ecstasy. 


136 


THE  TRAGIC  CHOPIN 

CHOPIN  has  bequeathed  to  us  six  scherzos. 
The  four  that  comprise  a  group  are  opus  20, 
in  B  minor;  opus  31,  B  flat  minor;  opus  39,  C 
sharp  minor,  and  opus  54,  E  major.  The  two 
remaining  scherzos  are  in  the  second  sonata, 
opus  35,  and  in  the  third  sonata,  opus  58.  They 
are  in  the  respective  keys  of  E  flat  minor  and 
E  flat  major.  These  six  compositions  are  evi 
dences  of  the  power,  originality,  variety,  and 
delicacy  of  Chopin.  The  scherzo  is  formally 
not  his  invention.  Beethoven  and  Mendels 
sohn  anticipated  him.  But  he  remodelled  the 
form  and  filled  it  with  a  surprisingly  novel  con 
tent,  though  not  altering  its  three-four  measure. 
With  the  Beethoven  scherzo  we  realize  the  swing, 
the  robustiousness  and,  at  times,  the  rude  jollity. 
In  the  Mendelssohn  scherzo  we  enjoy  the  velocity 
and  finish.  Light  without  heat,  true  scherzando 
moods;  indeed,  more  scherzo-like  than  Chopin's, 
Mendelssohn's  sense  of  elfin  joy  stemmed  from 
the  early  Italian  masters  of  the  pianoforte. 
Rossini  voiced  this  belief  after  hearing  the 
scherzo  a  capriccio  from  the  nimble  fingers  of 
Felix  himself,  and  said  to  the  composer:  "That 
smells  of  Scarlatti."  And  it  does  recall  Do- 
menico  Scarlatti,  whose  compositions,  slight  as 
to  structure,  are  replete  with  gracious  vitality 

137 


VARIATIONS 

and  a  surface  skimming  of  sentiment  like  the 
curved  flight  of  a  thin  bird  over  shallow  waters. 

A  terrible  though  beautiful  domain  is  the 
Chopin  scherzo.  Only  two  have  the  lightness 
of  touch,  clarity  in  atmosphere  and  bustling 
gaiety  of  the  conventional  scherzo:  the  other 
four  are  fierce,  grave,  ironic,  sardonic,  fiery,  pas 
sionate,  even  hysterical,  and  most  melancholy. 
In  several  the  moods  are  pathologic;  in  all, 
magical.  The  scherzo  in  E,  opus  54,  may  be 
best  described  by  the  thrice  commonplace  word, 
delightful.  It  is  sunny  music,  and  its  sweep  and 
swiftness  are  compelling.  The  five  preluding 
bars  of  half-notes,  unison,  strike  the  keynote 
of  optimism.  What  follows  is  like  the  ruffling 
of  tree-tops  by  warm  southern  winds.  The 
little  upward  flight  in  E,  beginning  at  the  seven 
teenth  bar,  in  major  thirds  and  fourths,  has  been 
cleverly  utilized  by  Saint-Saens  in  the  scherzo 
of  his  G  minor  piano  concerto,  opus  22.  The 
fanciful  embroidery  of  the  single  finger  passages 
is  never  opaque;  a  sparkling,  bubbling  freedom 
and  freshness  characterize  this  Chopin  scherzo, 
a  composition  not  heard  too  often  in  public, 
possibly  because  there  are  few  pianists,  like 
Joseffy  or  De  Pachmann,  to  play  it.  Its  emo 
tional  content  is  not  deep;  it  lies  well  within  the 
category  of  the  elegant,  the  capricious.  Its 
fourth  page  contains  an  episode  which  at  first 
blush  suggests  the  theme  of  the  A  flat  valse, 
opus  42,  with  its  comminglement  of  duplex  and 

138 


THE  TRAGIC  CHOPIN 

triple  rhythms.  Although  the  piu  lento  is  in  C 
sharp  minor,  it  betrays  little  sadness;  it  is  but 
the  blur  of  a  passing  cloud  that  shadows  with 
its  fleecy  edges  the  wind-swept  moorland. 

This  scherzo  in  E  is  a  mood  of  joyousness;  as 
joyous  as  the  witty,  sensitive,  umbrageous  com 
poser  ever  allowed  himself  to  become.  Its  coda 
is  not  so  forcible  as  the  usual  Chopin  coda. 
There  is  a  dazzling  flutter  of  silvery  scale  at  the 
close.  Altogether  a  charming  work.  Closely 
allied  to  it  in  general  sentiment  is  the  E  flat 
scherzo  from  the  B  minor  sonata.  It  is  largely 
arabesque  and  its  ornamentation  is  genial 
though  not  surprisingly  ingenious.  It  some 
what  savors  of  Weber.  It  might  go  on  forever. 
The  resolution  is  not  intellectual;  it  is  purely 
one  of  tonality.  The  thought  is  tenuous.  But 
it  is  highly  embroidered  relief  after  the  first 
movement  of  the  sonata.  Nor  is  the  trio  in  B 
particularly  noteworthy.  Truly  a  salon  scherzo, 
which  challenges  Mendelssohn  on  his  native 
heath.  It  may  be  considered  as  an  intermezzo, 
also  as  a  prelude  to  the  lyric  measures. 

We  are  on  firm  and  familiar  footing  when  the 
first  page  is  opened  of  the  B  flat  minor  scherzo, 
the  second  in  order  of  composition.  Who  has 
not  heard  with  interest  those  overarching  and 
questioning  triplets  which  Chopin  could  never 
make  his  pupils  play  sufficiently  ' '  tombe  "  ?  He 
told  De  Lenz:  "It  must  be  a  charnel-house." 
Alas!  These  same  vaulted  phrases  have  since 
become  banal.  This  scherzo,  like  the  lovely 

139 


VARIATIONS 

A  flat  Ballade,  is  cruelly  tortured  by  the  ambi 
tious  musical  flapper.  Yet  how  great,  how 
vigorous,  it  all  is;  how  it  abounds  in  sweetness 
and  light  when  the  music  falls  from  the  fingers 
of  a  master !  It  is  a  Byronic  poem  —  "so  ten 
der,  so  bold,  as  full  of  love  as  of  scorn,"  to  quote 
Schumann.  Has  Chopin  ever  penned  a  more 
delicious  song  than  this  in  D  flat,  with  its  stray 
ing  over  the  tonal  borderland?  It  is  the  high 
noon  of  life.  The  dark  bud  of  the  introduction 
has  come  to  a  perfect  flowering,  and  with  what 
miracles  of  scent,  shape,  and  color !  The  second 
section  has  the  quality  of  sane  wit.  It  is  serious 
to  severity,  yet  its  meanings  are  noble.  The 
brief  excursion  that  follows  is  the  awakening 
from  a  wondering  dream;  no  suggestion  there  of 
pallid  morbidities.  And  how  supremely  welded 
is  the  style  with  the  subject;  what  masterly 
writing  evolved  from  the  genius  of  the  instru 
ment  !  Then,  fearful  that  he  has  dwelt  too  long 
upon  his  ideas,  Chopin,  in  a  rapturous  flight, 
soars  away  to  clear  sky.  After  the  repetition 
comes  the  development  section,  and  while  it  is 
ingenious  and  effective  in  a  chaotic  way,  never 
theless  it  is  here  that  the  composer  is  at  his 
weakest.  The  Olympian  aloofness  of  Beethoven, 
which  permitted  him  to  survey  his  material  from 
every  point  of  view,  Chopin  could  not  boast. 
He  is  a  great  composer,  but  he  was  also  a  great 
pianist.  He  nurses  his  themes  with  construc 
tive  frugality,  and  sometimes  the  mechanical 
limitation  of  the  piano  checks  his  imagination. 
140 


THE  TRAGIC  CHOPIN 

The  well-sounding  is  considered  as  much  as  the 
clearly  thought.  There  is  logic  in  his  exposi 
tion,  though  it  is  often  piano,  not  music,  logic. 
A  certain  straining  after  brilliancy,  a  falling  off 
in  the  spontaneous  urge  of  the  earlier  pages, 
force  us  to  feel  easier  with  the  return  of  the  first 
theme.  The  coda  is  brilliant.  This  scherzo  in 
B  flat  minor  bids  fair  to  remain  the  favorite 
among  its  fellows.  It  is  neither  cryptic  nor 
repellent,  like  the  first  and  third  scherzo.  It  is 
a  perennial  joy  to  pupil  and  public.  Like  the 
soliloquy  in  Hamlet,  the  B  flat  minor  scherzo 
is  become  a  popular  quotation. 

Its  predecessor  in  B  minor,  opus  20,  is  the 
profounder  of  the  pair,  but  not  so  melodious. 
It  is  the  most  shrill  and  hysterical  of  the  scherzos. 
Though  in  the  ironic  vein,  it  is  Chopin  recklessly 
throwing  himself  to  the  winds  of  remorse  —  a 
Manfred  mood,  a  mood  of  self-torture,  a  con 
fession  from  the  first  chord  to  the  last.  Within 
the  dream  inclosed  by  its  gates  of  tonal  brass 
there  is  the  struggle  of  an  imprisoned  soul.  It 
is  the  unhappiest  and  the  most  riotous  of  the 
Pole's  works,  and  it  is  also  unduly  long.  Its 
emotional  keynote  is  too  tense  to  permit  of  the 
repetitions  marked  by  the  composer.  These 
repetitions  are  unsuited  to  present  taste,  which, 
above  all,  demands  brevity.  Poignancy  and 
prolixity  are  mutually  exclusive.  The  piece 
greatly  gains  when  played  without  "da  capo." 
Its  first  part  is  so  drastically  harsh  that  the 
141 


VARIATIONS 

succeeding  melody  in  B,  with  its  lilting  tenths 
-  "the  sweet  slumber  of  the  moonlight  on  the 
hill"  -  after  the  tragic  strain  comes  as  benison. 
This  scherzo  seems  to  possess  a  personal  mes 
sage.  Chopin,  like  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  was 
consumptive.  Slender  of  frame,  as  was  the 
Scotch  writer,  his  spirit  was  leonine.  His  was 
psychic  bravery.  He  could  write  terrible  music, 
conjure  up  desperate  images.  A  sense  of  stifled 
longing,  of  the  inability  to  compass  his  lofty 
ambitions,  fill  this  first  scherzo.  It  is  the  trag 
edy  of  Chopin's  life  compressed  within  a  few 
pages;  the  tragedy  of  one  whose  spirit  was 
weaker  than  his  flesh. 

The  arabesques  after  the  eight-bar  introduc 
tion  —  some  of  them  muted  bars,  as  is  Chopin's 
wont  —  has  a  spiritual  resemblance  to  the  prin 
cipal  figure  in  the  Fantasie-Impromptu,  opus 
66;  but  instead  of  the  ductile  triplets,  as  in  the 
bars  of  the  Impromptu,  the  figure  in  the  scherzo 
is  divided  between  the  hands,  while  the  harsh 
ness  of  the  mood  is  emphasized  by  the  anticipa 
tory  chord  in  the  left  hand.  The  vitality  of 
this  first  page  is  positively  electrifying.  The 
questioning  chords  at  the  close  of  the  section 
are  as  imaginative  as  any  passage  ever  written 
by  the  composer.  The  half-notes  E  and  the 
upleaping  appogiaturia  are  evidences  of  his 
originality  in  minor  details.  These  occur  be 
fore  the  modulation  into  the  lyric  theme  and 
with  some  slight  dashes  before  the  dash  into  the 
coda.  The  second  section,  in  agitato,  contains 
142 


THE  TRAGIC   CHOPIN 

several  knotty  harmonic  problems;  they  must 
be  skimmed  over  at  tempestuous  speed,  else 
cacophony.  Here  Chopin  is  bold  to  excess,  as 
if  his  spirit  would  knock  at  the  very  gates  of 
heaven  or  hell.  But  the  thunder  and  surge, 
after  waxing,  soon  wanes  and  spends  itself. 
The  soul  has  stormed  itself  into  sheer  weariness. 
By  critical  consent,  the  molto  piu  lento  is  a 
masterpiece.  Written  in  the  luscious  key  of  B, 
it  is  like  a  woven  enchantment.  Chopin  attains 
most  subtle  effects  with  broken  accords  in  tenths. 
The  only  other  slow  movements  comparable  to 
this  are  the  B  major  episode  in  the  B  minor 
octave  study,  opus  25,  and  the  largo  of  the  B 
minor  sonata.  The  Garden  of  Armida  or  the 
Vale  of  Tempe  are  evoked  by  all  three  tone- 
poems. 

Mark  how  the  composer  resumes  his  first 
savage  mood.  It  is  a  picture  of  contrasted  vi 
olences.  Beware  of  the  "da  capo."  Too  many 
repetitions  provoke  satiety.  Rather  attack  at 
once  the  coda  —  that  most  dramatic  of  Chopin's 
codas.  Bold,  breathless,  startling,  is  this  im 
petuous  ride  'cross  country.  The  heavy  accen 
tuation  on  the  first  note  of  every  bar  should  not 
obscure  one's  rhythmic  sense  to  the  second  beat 
in  the  left,  which  is  likewise  accented.  This 
produces  mixed  rhythms,  which  add  to  the 
murkiness,  confusion,  and  despair  of  the  finale. 
These  daring  dissonances  —  so  daring,  so  logi 
cal,  so  dramatic  —  how  they  must  have  rasped 
the  nerves  of  Chopin's  contemporaries!  And 

143 


VARIATIONS 

they  should  be  rigorously  insisted  upon.  No 
veiled  half-lights.  All  bridges  are  burned. 
Naught  remains  but  catastrophe.  To  his  doom 
goes  this  musical  Childe  Roland!  The  Dark 
Tower  crumbles  as  the  poet  dauntlessly  blows 
his  slug-horn.  The  scherzo  ends  in  overwhelm 
ing  ruin.  The  last  page  is  a  supreme  offering 
to  the  god  of  pessimism. 

Even  though  the  sneering  fretfulness  of  an 
unhappy  sick-brained  man  disturbs  its  sharp 
contours,  the  third  scherzo  in  C  sharp  minor, 
opus  39,  is  the  most  dramatic  and  the  finest 
moulded  of  them  all.  It  is  capricious  to  mad 
ness,  but  the  dramatic  quality  is  unmistakable. 
It  seethes  with  scorn  —  if  such  an  extravagant 
expression  may  be  allowed;  but  it  is  extravagant, 
full  of  fire  and  fury,  yet  signifying  something. 
A  word  as  to  the  tempo:  The  scherzos,  with  a 
few  exceptions,  are  marked  presto,  but  we  must 
remember  that  it  is  the  presto  of  Chopin's  time, 
also  of  his  piano  action.  His  favorite  Pleyel 
piano  was  light  and  elastic  in  action.  To-day 
actions  are  heavier,  the  key  dip  greater,  though 
the  elasticity  is  the  same.  Therefore  the  tempi 
of  these  scherzos  —  or  should  I  write  scherzi  ? 
-  ought  to  be  moderated,  otherwise  the  music 
loses  its  significant  ponderability,  not  to  say 
dignity,  when  we  adopt  the  old-fashioned  time 
markings.  The  first  part  of  the  B  minor  scherzo 
may  be  taken  at  a  presto  pace  —  that  is,  a  com 
modious  presto,  the  scherzo  in  E  major  must  be 
144 


THE  TRAGIC  CHOPIN 

played  presto;  also  the  one  in  E  flat,  as  both  are 
of  the  velocity  genre;  but  when  the  thought 
takes  on  a  graver  hue,  where  the  mastery  of 
utterance  and  nobility  of  phrase  are  to  be  con 
sidered,  then  moderate  your  pulse-beat.  The 
scherzo  in  C  sharp  minor  is  a  special  sufferer 
from  a  too  hurried  speed.  Architectonics  are 
blurred,  details  jumbled  and  grandeur  of  style 
is  absent.  And  if  you  start  with  such  a  fiery 
tempo,  how  shall  you  secure  contrast  in  the 
coda,  which  should  be  fairly  shot  from  the 
finger-tips?  Or  would  you  emulate  Schumann 
in  his  G  minor  sonata,  in  the  finale,  which  begins 
prestissimo,  and  is  later  ordered  by  the  com 
poser  to  become  still  more  prestissimo  ?  Achieve 
a  presto,  by  all  means,  but  consider  the  heavier 
tonal  mass  of  the  modern  piano. 

This  C  sharp  minor  scherzo  is  a  massive  com 
position,  yet  replete  with  fitful  starts  and  rhyth 
mic  surprises.  The  chorale  and  its  trio  are 
Chopinesque  as  to  fioritura  and  in  harmonic 
basis.  Throughout  the  narrative  tone  is  dra 
matic;  even  in  the  "meno  mosso"  it  never  tar 
ries.  The  coda  is  built  on  an  effect  of  persistent 
iteration.  It  is  excellently  adapted  to  the  key 
board.  The  composition  has  affinities  with  the 
dark  and  grotesque  conceptions  of  Hoffmann, 
Poe,  or  Coleridge.  Its  acid  irony  recalls  Heine. 
It  is  like  fantastic  architecture  seen  in  a  dream; 
about  it  hover  perpetual  gloom  and  the  despair 
ing  things  that  circle  in  the  night.  It  is  like  a 
tale  from  Poe's  iron-bound,  melancholy  volume 


VARIATIONS 

of  the  Magi  and  across  its  portal  is  written  the 
word,  Spleen. 

Remains  the  E  flat  minor  scherzo  from  the 
second  sonata.  It  is  the  most  powerful  of  the 
set.  To  interpret,  one  needs  breadth  of  style, 
heroic  spirit,  abetted  by  wrists  of  steel.  The 
big  Rossinian  one-bar  crescendo  at  the  begin 
ning  taxes  the  strength.  The  composition  is 
elemental;  the  chromatic  whistling  of  the  wind 
in  the  chord  of  the  sixth  makes  true  storm-music. 
There  is  menacing  gloom  in  the  initial  bars;  the 
blissful  song  is  not  quite  uninterrupted  bliss; 
there  is  always  a  tempest  that  threatens.  The 
descending  octaves,  which  seem  to  invite  us  to 
the  infernal  regions,  are  swept  away  by  the 
storm-theme,  and  once  more  we  are  madly  pro 
jected  through  space.  Satanic  pride,  a  challenge 
to  fate,  the  defiance  of  the  microcosm  to  the 
threatening  macrocosm;  these  and  other  char 
acteristics  may  be  imagined  in  this  profound 
work.  It  depends  on  the  listener.  With  Chopin 
as  with  Rome,  you  carry  away  what  you  fetch 
to  either  man  or  city.  But  your  little  Peter's 
pence  of  sympathy  has  suffered  a  rich  change 
in  the  return.  We  are  the  gainers.  Some  day, 
no  longer  as  remote  as  when  the  fallacious  belief 
that  the  music  of  any  particular  nation  is  better 
than  another's,  perhaps  Chopin  may  stand 
where  he  should,  next  to  Bach,  Mozart,  and  Bee 
thoven.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  map-music; 
there  is  only  beautiful  music.  And  you  can 
never  play  Chopin  beautifully  enough. 
146 


PHASES  OF  THE  GREATER 
CHOPIN 

TO-DAY  the  Impromptus  of  Chopin  are  well- 
nigh  impossible  in  the  concert-room.  Those 
delights  of  all  true  " flappers,"  the  Fantasie- 
Impromptu  in  C  sharp  minor,  and  the  A  flat 
Impromptu  are  played  too  often,  that  is,  played 
badly.  The  first  part  of  the  Fantasie-Im- 
promptu  is  taken  at  too  swift  a  pace,  and,  in 
consequence,  sounds  too  much  like  an  etude, 
when  in  reality  its  arabesques  do  hint  at  some 
thing  more  emotional.  The  figuration  suggests 
that  of  the  B  minor  scherzo,  not,  however,  so 
pregnant  with  dramatic  meanings.  And  that 
second  section  in  D  flat,  how  it  is  dragged,  how 
it  is  sprawled  and  drawled !  In  company  with 
the  second  theme  of  the  Funeral  March,  it  is 
the  most  sentimental  of  its  composer.  The 
greater  Chopin  is  revealed  in  the  second  Im 
promptu,  the  one  in  the  key  of  F  sharp  major. 
It  is  a  sheaf  of  moods  organically  more  bound 
together  than  seems  at  a  first  hearing.  Because 
of  its  true  impromptu  spirit,  its  vagrant  moods, 
its  restless  outpouring  of  fancies,  it  has  been 
rather  disregarded  by  some  Chopinists,  who, 
hidebound  as  any  academic  critic,  are  shocked 
by  the  changes  in  tonality,  and,  being  unimag- 

147 


VARIATIONS 

inative,  are  shocked  also  by  the  capricious  shift 
ing  of  moods;  one  dream  melts  into  another, 
and  after  a  repetition  of  those  sweetly  attuned 
chords  at  the  close,  a  vigorous  affirmation 
awakens  the  listener  as  would  a  sudden  clap 
of  thunder  during  a  peaceful  evening  in  June. 
There  are  several  enigmatic  bars  of  modulation 
that  have  puzzled  purists  and  still  are  disquiet 
ing  even  to  excursionists  through  the  tangled 
harmonic  underwoods  of  Ornstein  and  Stra 
vinsky.  I  refer  to  a  transitional  passage  after 
the  march-like  measures  and  immediately  be 
fore  the  return  of  the  principal  melody.  Else 
where  I  have  compared  them  to  the  creaking 
of  a  rusty  hinge  in  the  dooryard  where  Walt 
Whitman's  lilacs  last  bloomed.  The  G  flat 
Impromptu,  the  third  in  the  published  order 
—  the  Fantasie-Impromptu,  opus  66,  is  pos 
thumous  —  was  seldom  heard  in  recital  till 
Vladimir  de  Pachmann,  master  expositor  of 
the  more  delicate  phases  of  the  Polish  composer, 
revived  it  in  his  programme.  Since  then  it  is 
become  more  familiar.  It  is  charming  with  its 
spiral  figuration,  though  less  novel  than  its 
two  predecessors. 

The  Mazurkas,  those  impish,  morbid,  gay, 
sour,  dour,  graceful  little  dances,  I  need  not 
dwell  upon  here  at  length.  For  the  majority 
of  pianists  they  are  a  sealed  book,  and  if  you 
have  not  a  savor  of  Slav  in  you  pray  do  not 
disturb  them  with  your  literalism.  De  Pach 
mann,  Godowsky,  Paderewski,  Gabrilowitsch, 
148 


PHASES  OF  THE  GREATER  CHOPIN 

and  Josef  Hofmann  play  them  wonderfully, 
but  how  few  others.  I  recall  a  story  told  me 
by  Rosenthal,  whose  colossal  performances 
here  are  memorable.  He  wished  to  hear  from 
De  Pachmann's  nimble  fingers  his  own  version 
of  the  Mazurkas  and  paid  the  Russian  a  visit 
one  evening.  Pachmann  did  not  greet  Rosen- 
thai  too  sympathetically.  "Ah !"  he  exclaimed, 
when  Moriz,  the  octave-thunderbolt,  explained 
the  reason  for  his  unexpected  appearance.  "Ah ! 
but  I  play  the  Mazurkas  so  badly.  Now,  if  I 
had  your  technique" — his  eyes  fairly  sparkled 
with  malicious  irony  — "I  might  be  able  to  play 
them!"  However,  he  was  persuaded,  and  once 
seated  at  the  piano  he  didn't  leave  it  till  he  had 
almost  finished  the  entire  collection;  and  Cho 
pin  wrote  many  of  these  dances.  (At  least 
fifty-one,  if  you  include  several  of  doubtful 
authenticity).  How  did  he  play  them,  this 
perverse  magical  artist?  Rosenthal  told  me 
that  he  had  never  heard  such  beautiful,  subtle, 
and  treacherous  playing;  the  treachery  was 
the  manner  in  which  he  interpreted  the  music. 
Not  an  accent  was  correct,  the  phrasing  was 
falsified,  though  the  precise  notation  was  ad 
hered  to,  and  all  delivered  with  a  variety  of 
touches  positively  exquisite.  " There!"  cried 
De  Pachmann,  as  he  finished,  "that  is  the  only 
way  to  play  the  Mazurkas."  And  he  smiled 
with  his  eyes.  "Not!"  thought  Rosenthal, 
who  thanked  his  colleague  and  hurried  into 
the  open  air  where  he  could  explode.  Talk 
149 


VARIATIONS 

about  camouflage!  The  joke  was  later  when 
Rosenthal  teased  De  Pachmann  about  his 
trickery  and  the  Chopinzee  absolutely  grinned 
with  joy.  Surely,  as  Sam  Johnson  remarked, 
the  reciprocal  civility  of  authors  is  one  of  the 
most  risible  scenes  in  the  farce  of  life.  The 
splenetic  doctor  could  have  joined  musicians 
to  authors. 

Chopin  has  composed  some  marvellous  music 
in  the  Mazurka  form.  Consider  the  three  or 
four  of  these  dances  in  the  key  of  C  sharp  minor, 
the  poetic  one  in  B  flat  minor,  the  one  with  the 
morbidly  insistent  theme  in  B  minor  or  that 
sad,  appealing  example  in  F  minor,  the  last 
which  Chopin  is  said  to  have  put  on  paper.  Its 
fixed  idea,  its  hectic  gaiety  and  acrid  gloom 
reveal  a  sick  brain,  the  brain  of  a  dying  man. 
But  there  are  many  other  Mazurkas  filled  with 
daylight  cheerfulness.  Of  the  greater  Chopin 
posterity  will  probably  acclaim  the  Polonaises 
in  F  sharp  minor,  A  flat  major  and  the  Fan- 
taisie-Polonaise  in  the  same  key.  There  is  a 
wealth  of  fantasy  in  this  Polonaise,  opus  61; 
its  restless  tonalities,  the  beauty  of  the  first 
theme,  the  vaporous  deliquesence  later  of  this 
theme,  the  violent  mood  changes  and  harmonic 
grandeur  left  this  work  to  the  elect  of  the  com 
poser.  The  F  sharp  minor  Polonaise  and  the 
so-called  Siberian  in  E  flat  minor,  as  well  as  the 
Polonaise  in  C  minor  are  nothing  if  not  virile. 
They  demand  men  as  well  as  pianists  to  inter 
pret  them. 


PHASES  OF  THE  GREATER   CHOPIN 

Liszt  pronounced  the  F  sharp  minor  Polonaise 
pathologic.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  surpasses 
in  sombre  grandeur  the  Heroic  Polonaise,  opus 
53,  notwithstanding  the  thundering  cannons 
and  cavalry  charges  of  the  more  popular  of 
the  pair.  The  triplets  in  eight  notes  of  the 
introduction  achieve  a  splendid  climax  of  sus 
pense  before  the  entrance  of  the  chief  theme. 
Soon  octaves  and  chords  supplant  the  single 
notes  of  the  melody.  There  is  epical  breadth 
which  at  each  reiteration  becomes  bigger,  so 
big  that  it  almost  overflows  the  frame  of  the 
keyboard,  in  suggestion  becomes  orchestral. 
The  second  subject  in  the  major  (D  flat)  is 
less  drastic,  is  an  excellent  contrast  figure.  The 
strange  intermezzo  in  A  which  precedes  the 
Mazurka  is  not  enigmatic  if  you  hear  it  as  a 
sinister  roll  of  drums.  I  think  of  Rembrandt's 
Night  Watch,  and  its  muffled  morning  music. 
Its  intent  is  manifest,  it  leads  to  the  second 
theme,  now  transposed  to  the  despairing  key 
of  C  sharp  minor;  the  Mazurka  which  follows 
tempted  Liszt  —  or  his  amanuensis,  Princess 
Sayn- Wittgenstein  —  to  the  most  extravagant 
panegyric.  Its  brace  of  double  notes,  thirds 
and  sixths  are  lovely  in  hue  and  scent,  but  pray 
do  not  languish  your  tempo,  else  the  episode 
soon  becomes  sugary.  Again  the  Polonaise 
resumes  its  elemental  chant,  a  chant  which 
grows  huger  in  rancorous  woe  until  the  very 
bottom  of  the  pit  of  desolation  is  reached,  and, 
without  a  gleam  of  light,  comes  the  code  with 


VARIATIONS 

mutterings  of  the  main  theme,  and  only  in  the 
very  last  bar  we  hear  with  positive  relief  a 
smashing  F  sharp  in  octaves. 

What  does  it  all  mean?  Some  obscure  psy 
chological  drama  of  the  composer's  soul  in  which 
he  vents  his  spleen,  indignation  and  defiance, 
and  rages  against  the  ineluctable  canons  of 
destiny.  In  a  sense  this  Polonaise  is  pathologic. 
It  appeals  to  the  nerves.  It  lacerates  the  pulp 
of  our  sensibility,  it  is  morbid,  but  it  is  also 
magnificent.  It  is  not  sensational  like  the  two 
Polonaises  of  Liszt  in  E  major  and  C  minor, 
though  it  is  equally  brilliant.  Arthur  Fried- 
heim  played  the  Chopin  Polonaise  superbly  at 
one  time.  It  suited  his  saturnine  mood.  I 
fancy,  however,  that  Franz  Liszt's  performance 
must  have  been  the  supreme  exemplar.  There 
is  a  loftiness  of  mood  coupled  with  the  heroic 
patterns  of  this  piece  which  place  it  in  the  cate 
gory  of  masterpieces.  It  reminds  one  of  a  sullen, 
rugged  landscape  in  the  style  of  Salvator  Rosa, 
a  solitary  human  in  the  foreground,  distracted, 
who  lifts  suicidal  hands  to  the  darkling,  indif 
ferent  skies.  It  is  the  tragedy  of  Man,  who  is 
no  longer,  as  in  the  old-fashioned  geocentric 
conception  of  the  universe,  the  centre  of  things, 
but  discovers  himself  alone,  deserted  by  the 
familiar  signs  and  stars  in  his  cosey  firmament, 
and  despairs.  The  tragedy  of  unfaith.  The 
tragedy  of  love  that  slays.  Unhappy  Chopin 
was  baptized  a  Roman  Catholic,  so  was  George 
Sand.  Both  were,  to  put  the  case  mildly,  slack 

152 


PHASES  OF  THE  GREATER  CHOPIN 

in  the  practices  of  their  church.  Chopin  was 
of  a  pious  bent. 

He  concealed  his  attachment  to  the  French 
sphinx  of  the  inkpot  from  his  mother  in  War 
saw  because  he  feared  to  pain  her.  She  was 
profoundly  religious.  Madame  Sand,  who 
didn't  wear  trousers  and  smoke  all  day,  as  cari 
cature  proclaims,  was  cruel  to  her  consumptive 
genius.  She  appreciated  his  work,  but  his 
humors  were  antic.  She  called  Frederic  "mon 
cher  cadavre,"  and  this  "corpse"  must  have 
grated  on  his  nerves.  Oh !  if  he  had  possessed 
but  a  tithe  of  her  saving  sense  of  humor.  But 
Chopin  was  not  given  to  jesting  over  his  love. 
He  flirted  and  mildly  diverted  himself;  the 
Sand  affair  was  deadly  serious  to  him.  When 
the  spirit  moved  her  she  betrayed  him  (let  us 
politely  call  it  spirit  rather  than  temperament). 
Her  final  desertion  didn't  kill  him.  It  was  the 
liaison  that  slew  the  man,  body  and  soul.  She 
robbed  him  of  love,  faith,  and  fatherland.  His 
ending,  though,  was  in  the  proper  religious  key. 
According  to  Turgines,  half  the  countesses  in 
Europe  sang  him  to  his  death.  (Many  are  still 
singing  their  hearers  along  the  same  road.) 
I  believe  the  F  sharp  Polonaise  to  be  the  most 
subjective  from  the  pen  of  its  composer,  even 
more  so  than  the  B  minor  scherzo,  opus  20. 

The  nocturnes  are  done  to  death.  Let  us 
pass  them  by.  The  C  sharp  minor  nocturne 
is  like  the  one  in  C  minor;  both  are  still  free 
from  persecution  at  the  hands  of  the  young 

153 


VARIATIONS 

person  who  has  decked  the  most  virile  spirit 
of  his  age  with  Parisian  millinery.  These  two 
nocturnes  do  not  intrigue  the  fancy  of  the  ama 
teur.  In  breadth  of  conception  they  are  Bee- 
thovenian.  The  E  major  nocturne,  a  favorite 
of  Josef  Hofmann,  and  the  one  in  B,  the 
Tuberose,  in  which  Paderewski  proved  so  elo 
quent  and  whose  very  title  makes  H.  L. 
Mencken  grit  his  teeth,  are  loaded  with  purest 
Chopin  ore.  I  admire,  but  with  reservations, 
the  transcription  of  various  nocturnes  to  in 
struments  of  the  string  family.  Wilhelmj  trans 
posed  the  D  flat  nocturne  for  violin  and  Leopold 
Auer  has  arranged  the  posthumous  nocturne 
in  E  minor,  which  Heifetz  plays  beautifully; 
yet,  effective  as  they  may  be,  they  are  not  truly 
Chopinesque.  They  are  too  saccharine  on  the 
strings;  we  miss  the  cool,  crystalline  tones  of 
the  pianoforte. 

The  Berceuse !  Of  that  wonder-child  who 
came  to  us  through  the  pink  gates  of  the  dawn, 
and  was  rocked  to  rhythmic  dreams  in  Chopin's 
Cradle  Song,  I  may  only  say  that  in  the  hands 
of  many  pianists  it  has  grown  to  be  a  brat  of 
banal  visage  and  muscular  proportions.  An 
ululation  of  the  D  flat  tonality,  it  has  now  be 
come  a  mere  finger  study.  When  Joseffy  played 
the  composition  a  poem  emerged  from  the 
ivories.  What  of  the  Preludes?  Alone  the 
twenty-five  Preludes  would  give  their  creator 
a  claim  on  immortality.  There  are  technical 
range  and  poetic  vision;  above  all,  there  is 

154 


PHASES  OF  THE  GREATER   CHOPIN 

humanity.  Shades  of  feeling  are  explored, 
depths  and  altitudes  of  passion  explored.  If 
all  Chopin  were  to  be  annulled  I  should  plead 
for  the  salvation  of  the  Preludes.  The  cameo- 
like  stillness  of  some  is  like  softly  spoken  words 
overheard  in  a  cloister.  Truly  religious.  But 
thunder-riven  Preludes  in  D  minor,  in  B  flat 
minor,  in  F  minor  and  E  flat  minor  stir  our 
pulse  to  sharper  vibration.  Surpassingly  sweet 
is  the  elegiac  Prelude  in  B  flat.  It  recalls  the 
nocturnes.  The  second  Prelude  with  its  enig 
matic  questionings  is  for  a  rainy  day;  a  day 
when  the  soul  is  racked  by  doubt  or  defeat; 
about  it,  hovers  a  grisly  something  that  we  dare 
not  define.  It  may  be  Chopin's  Horla,  this 
sinister  music-making.  A  ray  of  sunshine,  but 
from  a  sun  that  slants  in  the  west  is  the  Prelude 
in  G.  What  marvels  in  miniature,  what  cun 
ningly  wrought  jewels!  Darker  drama  may 
be  found  as  the  D  minor  Prelude  with  its  ele 
mental  ground  —  bass  —  in  angry  sea  roars 
somewhere  in  the  background;  also  in  the  glit 
tering  scales  of  the  B  flat  minor  Prelude  and 
the  declamatory  passages  of  the  F  minor  Pre 
lude.  In  the  C  sharp  minor  Prelude,  opus  45, 
there  are  marked  anticipations  of  the  later 
manner  of  Brahms,  not  alone  in  spirit  but  in 
figuration.  This  Prelude  is  a  foretaste  of 
Brahms,  the  familiar  Chopin  note  not  missing. 
The  embroideries  of  the  Barcarolle  —  a  fully 
developed  and  dramatic  Nocturne  —  and  of 
the  Bolero  are  more  Polish  than  Italian  or 

155 


VARIATIONS 

Spanish.  By  some  critics  the  Fantaisie,  opus 
49,  has  been  adjudged  the  most  perfect  work 
of  the  composer.  The  grave,  march-like  intro 
ductions,  the  insistent,  climbing  figures  in  trip 
lets,  the  great  song  in  F  minor,  followed  by  the 
enchanting  episodes  in  double-notes,  and  the 
powerful  climax  reveal  another  Chopin  from  the 
sentimental  dreamer,  the  conventional  Thad- 
deus  of  Warsaw.  There  is  logical  development. 
There  are  dramatic  scope  and  intensity.  The 
lento  is  peaceful,  the  coda  impressive.  The 
entire  composition  is  massive,  its  phraseology 
long-breathed.  It  represents  the  master  at  the 
peak  of  his  powers. 


156 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  COSIMA  I 

WHEN  Cosima  I,  Queen  of  Baireuth,  does 
enter  the  eternal  shadowland,  her  passing  will 
not  greatly  intrigue  the  attention  of  a  world 
whose  ears  buzz  with  the  rumors  of  mightier 
happenings.  She  has  been  a  dweller  for  years 
in  the  Twilights.  (She  was  born  December  25, 
1837,  at  Bellagio,  Italy,  and  not  in  1840,  as  the 
musical  annals  have  it.)  She  is  the  last  of  the 
famous  dynasty  founded  by  her  husband,  Rich 
ard  Wagner,  greatest  of  modern  composers. 
No  one,  not  even  his  admirers,  dared  pretend 
that  Siegfried  Wagner  would  ever  succeed  his 
father  on  the  musical  throne.  A  brief  span 
Cosima  entertained  high  hopes  for  her  son's 
future.  He  had  been  coached  by  Humperdinck 
and  Richter.  His  operas  were  produced  in 
European  capitals,  but  to  no  avail.  He  could 
not  fill  the  shadow  of  his  sire,  much  less  write  a 
bar  of  music  worth  the  whistling.  Wotan  had 
fathered  a  Parsifal,  Jr.,  and  Baireuth  sympa 
thized  with  Cosima's  disappointment.  It  was 
the  second  sorrow  of  a  life  crowded  with  happi 
ness.  In  1883  the  man  she  adored  as  a  god  died 
on  her  bosom  at  Venice.  That  tragic  event  trans 
formed  her  from  a  loving  wife  to  the  sternly 
ambitious  woman  who  ruled  the  destinies  of 
Baireuth  for  thirty  years.  In  1913  the  third 

157 


VARIATIONS 

sorrow  came  to  her  in  the  unwelcome  shape  of 
copyright  expiration.  The  music  of  Wagner 
was  free  to  every  country.  Parsifal,  the  Rhine- 
gold  of  Baireuth,  already  had  been  ravished  by 
an  American  Alberich;  nevertheless,  from  the 
shock  of  the  legal  decision  which  blotted  Baireuth 
off  the  map  of  music  Cosima  never  recovered. 
She  was  become  a  shadow  of  her  former  grandeur. 
She  had  outlived  her  majesty. 

I  first  saw  her  in  1894.  It  was  the  summer 
when  Lillian  Nordica  made  her  debut  in  the 
historic  opera-house  on  the  hill.  Zoltan  Doeme, 
her  husband,  also  appeared.  His  Parsifal,  too, 
is  historic.  Queen  Cosima  I  was  a  tall,  gaunt 
woman  with  the  familiar  Liszt  profile,  her  white 
hair  worn  a  la  Liszt,  her  stride  that  of  a  grena 
dier.  She  ruled  with  an  iron  hand,  a  hand  not 
encased  in  a  velvet  glove  like  her  father's.  A 
tyrant  in  petticoats  was  the  usual  ascription. 
Not  loved,  indeed  feared,  she  ran  the  Baireuth 
machine  with  the  shrewdness  of  a  Tammany 
Hall  politician.  Her  contemporaries  concur  in 
that.  A  woman  of  brains,  courage,  audacity, 
she  recalled  for  me  a  second  Margravine  of 
Baireuth  in  her  domineering  manner.  She 
would  tolerate  no  rivals.  Conductor  after  con 
ductor  came  and  went.  When  Lilli  Lehmann 
toward  the  close  of  a  glorious  artistic  career  sang, 
in  1896,  then  Gibraltar  met  Gibraltar.  Lilli  had 
been  one  of  the  Rhine-Daughters  in  1876.  She 
knew  her  Wagner  as  well  as  Cosima.  There  was 
warlike  gossip  then  of  which  I  got  my  fill.  The 

158 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF   COSIMA  I 

ladies  parted  the  best  of  friends,  of  course. 
Olive  Fremstad,  a  pupil  of  Lehmann,  was  one  of 
the  Rhine-Daughters  that  year.  Ellen  Gul- 
branson  was  the  Brunnhilde  after  Lehmann. 
Alois  Burgs  taller  made  a  clumsy  debut  as  Sieg 
fried  and  Parsifal.  Mottl  was  the  reigning  fa 
vorite,  Felix  of  Munich,  the  first  man  in  whom 
the  inconsolable  Cosima  showed  deep  interest 
after  the  death  of  Richard.  Cosima,  all  said  and 
done,  was  a  daughter  of  Franz  Liszt.  The  last 
time  I  saw  her  was  in  1901.  With  George 
Moore  I  stood  on  the  esplanade  facing  the  Fran- 
conian  valley,  and  during  an  entr'acte  of  the 
Ring  we  discussed  the  mediocre  conducting  of 
Prince  Siegfried  Wagner  and  the  fond,  foolish 
affection  of  his  mother.  She  passed.  This  time 
she  rode,  but  that  rigid  spine,  the  proud  pose  of 
the  head,  the  undimmed  hawk-like  eyes  —  I  am 
the  widow  of  Wagner  and  the  daughter  of  Liszt ! 
they  seemed  thus  to  challenge  the  gaze  of  the 
public  —  proved  her  still  in  possession  of  all  her 
powers.  And  she  was  then  past  sixty.  Truly 
an  extraordinary  woman  this,  with  her  name  out 
of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  herself  like  some  be 
lated  and  imperious  apparition  from  the  Renais 
sance. 

Her  forebears  were  just  as  remarkable.  Liszt 
met  her  mother,  the  Countess  d'Agoult,  in  the 
brilliant  whirl  of  his  artistic  successes  at  Paris. 
Chopin  had  dedicated  to  her  the  first  book  of 
his  Etudes.  She  was  beautiful,  accomplished, 
though  her  intimates  declare  that  hers  was  not  a 

159 


VARIATIONS 

truthful  nature.  She  was  born  Marie  Sophie 
de  Flavigny,  in  1805,  at  Frankfort-on-Main, 
Germany.  Her  father  was  the  Vicomte  de 
Flavigny,  a  French  refugee,  who  had  married  the 
daughter  of  Simon  Moritz  Bethmann,  a  rich 
banker,  originally  from  Amsterdam  and  a  He 
brew  converted  to  Lutheranism.  Marie  had 
literary  ability,  boasted  of  meeting  Goethe  once, 
and  in  1827  she  married  Count  Charles  d'Agoult 
of  Paris.  Social  sedition  was  in  the  air.  The 
"Misunderstood  Woman"  —  no  new  thing  then, 
and  still  with  us  —  was  the  fashion.  George 
Sand  was  changing  her  lovers  with  every  book 
she  wrote,  and  the  Countess  d'Agoult  began  to 
yearn  for  fame  and  adventures.  Liszt  appeared. 
He  seems  to  have  been  the  pursued  one.  They 
eloped.  In  honor  he  could  not  desert  the 
woman.  They  made  Geneva  their  home  — 
temporarily,  for  both  had  the  nomad  heart  and 
were  doomed  to  pitch  their  tents  in  many  strange 
places.  In  her  own  right  Marie  had  twenty 
thousand  francs  yearly  income.  It  cost  Liszt 
exactly  three  hundred  thousand  francs  to  keep 
up  an  establishment  such  as  the  lady  had  been 
accustomed  to;  he  earned  this  at  the  keyboard, 
a  tidy  amount  for  those  days.  (There  were 
pianistic  money-kings  before  Paderewski.)  And 
yet  she  was  not  satisfied.  Ever  insatiable  are 
artistic  women. 

Mme.  d'Agoult  bore  him  three  children  — 
Blandine,  Cosima,  and  Daniel.     Blandine,  the 
beauty  of  the  family,  married  Emile  Ollivier  in 
160 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  COSIMA  I 

1857.  She  died  in  1862.  Liszt  greatly  loved 
her.  Ollivier  was  later  Napoleon's  war  min 
ister,  and  was  fooled  to  the  top  of  his  bent  by 
the  Mephisto  of  European  politics,  Count  von 
Bismarck.  He  died  a  few  years  ago  nearly  a 
centenarian,  and  busy  to  the  last  explaining 
that  he  was  not  to  blame  for  losing  the  tragic 
Franco-Prussian  War.  His  hell  was  paved  with 
good  intentions  before  he  reached  there.  Cos- 
ima  married  Hans  von  Billow,  her  father's 
"favorite  pupil"  (there  were  hundreds  of  them), 
in  1857.  True  to  family  form,  she  ran  off  with 
Richard  Wagner,  and,  to  the  despair  of  her 
father,  married  that  fickle  gentleman.  Her 
father's  discomfiture  was  the  result  of  Cosima's 
defection  from  the  Roman  Catholic  faith.  She 
renounced  this  faith  and  became  of  her  hus 
band's  religious  persuasion,  i.  e.,  nominally  a 
Protestant,  in  reality  a  free-thinker.  Daniel 
Liszt,  the  hope  of  his  father,  died  in  December, 
1859,  at  the  age  of  twenty.  Liszt  had  legitima 
tized  the  birth  of  his  children,  had  educated 
them,  had  generously  dowered  his  daughters, 
and  all  three  were  a  source  of  sorrow  to  him. 
The  high  light  of  comedy  was  not  absent  when 
the  gallant  Count  d'Agoult  —  we  shan't  say 
"  bereaved  of  his  wife,"  for  who  shall  pretend 
to  analyze  the  mixed  emotions  of  a  man  sorely 
wounded  in  his  pride  of  race  and  secretly  over 
joyed  at  being  rid  of  a  pernicious  blue-stocking  ? 
-  called  a  family  council,  which,  after  due  con 
sideration,  pronounced  the  verdict  that  Mon- 
161 


VARIATIONS 

sieur  Frangois  Liszt  (they  spelled  it  Litz  in 
Paris)  had  behaved  like  a  " perfect  gentleman" 
in  a  certain  delicate  indiscretion,  thereby  ab 
solving  him  from  all  blame  in  the  matter.  Re 
cording  angels  on  high  must  have  wept,  and 
George  Meredith  lost  a  theme  peculiarly  fitted 
to  his  ironic  pen.  But  the  injured  husband 
calmly  went  to  his  club  every  day  and  died  in 
the  odor  of  mundane  sanctity. 

As  might  have  been  foreseen,  la  d'Agoult 
quarrelled  with  her  Liszt.  They  parted  bad 
friends.  Under  the  pen-name  of  Daniel  Stern 
she  attacked  him  in  her  souvenirs  and  novels. 
He  forgave.  A  most  irritating  trait  in  his  char 
acter  was  his  inability  to  hate  his  enemies.  Of 
Heine  alone  he  spoke  ill.  When  some  one  asked 
him  if  Heine's  name  would  be  carved  on  the 
portals  of  fame,  Liszt  replied:  "Yes,  in  letters 
of  mud";  which  is  manifestly  unjust.  In  1860 
Franz  and  Marie  met  for  the  last  time,  and  in 
Paris.  He  gently  told  her  that  the  true  title  of 
her  souvenirs  should  have  been  Poses  et  Men- 
songes.  She  wept.  He  was  quite  right.  She 
was  a  detestable  poseuse  and  a  fibber.  Tragic 
comedians,  both.  They  bored  each  other. 
Their  union  recalls  Flaubert's  profound  remark 
that  Emma  Bovary  found  in  adultery  only  the 
platitudes  of  marriage.  Perhaps  other  ladies 
had  supervened  in  the  cometary  existence  of 
Liszt.  Like  Byron  he  was  the  sentimental  hero 
of  his  day.  A  Rene  of  the  pianoforte.  Read 
the  recollections  of  Mme.  Adam  for  a  clue  to  the 
162 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  COSIMA  I 

character  of  Cosima's  mother.  Liszt  sensibly 
intrusted  to  the  care  of  his  own  mother  the  edu 
cation  of  her  three  grandchildren.  She  was  born 
at  Krems,  Lower  Austria,  and  a  pious  soul. 
Curious  it  is  that  the  son  of  a  Hungarian  mag 
nate's  overseer  should  be  by  the  force  of  cir 
cumstances  and  his  own  genius  allied  with  the 
aristocracy  and  high  diplomacy  in  several  lands 
of  his  time,  Liszt  Ferencz,  whose  name  trans 
lated  into  English  would  be  Frank  Flour. 

Unhappy  with  the  intellectual  but  irascible 
von  Biilow,  Cosima  was  happy  with  her  Richard. 
If  there  were  quarrels  they  were  fought  behind 
closed  doors.  She  was  not  beautiful  like  her 
sister  Blandine,  but  she  had  more  brains.  An 
ton  Rubinstein  loved  her;  Nietzsche's  last  re 
corded  writing  before  his  mental  eclipse  at  Turin, 
1889,  was  a  passionate  phrase  meant  for  her. 
He  was  closely  allied  with  the  Wagners  at  Trieb- 
schen,  and  had  corrected  the  proofs  of  Richard's 
Autobiography,  a  garbled  version  of  which  has 
been  published  with  the  blue  pencil  of  Baireuth 
writ  large  on  every  page.  Some  day  all  the 
secrets  of  that  prison-house  will  be  divulged. 
Nietzsche  surmised  much,  and  many  guesses 
have  furnished  stuff  for  romantic  commentators. 
Romance  of  the  most  lurid  pattern  has  enveloped 
the  Liszt  Wagner  von  Biilow  d'Agoult  group. 
And  the  greatest  influence  in  Wagner's  career 
was  not  Cosima  but  Mathilde  Wesendonck,  to 
whom  we  owe  the  genesis  of  that  lyric  master 
piece  among  masterpieces,  Tristan  and  Isolde. 


VARIATIONS 

For  her  spiritual  collaboration  with  Wagner, 
Mathilde  was  never  forgiven  by  Cosima  —  after 
all,  a  real  woman. 

Liszt  participated  in  the  musical  inaugura 
tion  of  Baireuth,  in  1876;  the  family  dissension 
had  been  patched  up  in  1873;  but  he  played 
second  fiddle  to  his  son-in-law.  His  affectionate 
daughter  saw  to  that;  also  saw,  in  1886,  when 
her  father  had  the  bad  taste  to  die  during  the 
festival  at  Baireuth,  that  he  was  buried  as 
quietly  as  possible,  for  an  imposing  funeral 
might  have  disturbed  the  gate-money  at  the 
big  barn  on  the  hill.  Thrift,  Cosima,  thrift! 
At  her  husband's  death  she  declared  that  her 
father  no  longer  existed  for  her.  Mention  of 
his  music  was  snubbed  at  Wahnfried  —  in  the 
back  yard  of  which  Wagner  was  buried  like  a 
cat,  as  Philip  Hale  so  blandly  puts  it.  The 
awful  part  was  to  follow.  Liszt,  instead  of  being 
interred  at  Weimar,  or  Budapest,  lies  under  the 
shelter  of  a  hideous  tomb  in  Baireuth,  devised  by 
his  grandson,  Siegfried  Wagner  —  who  is  also 
an  architect.  This,  another  of  Cosima's  tactless 
doings.  She  estranged  the  old  friends  of  her 
husband,  with  the  exception  of  the  faithful 
Hans  Richter,  who  told  me  at  London  —  in  1901, 
where  he  conducted  the  Ring  in  Covent  Garden 
—  that  Cosima  was  as  great  as  a  woman  as 
Wagner  a  composer;  which  was  no  doubt  true; 
and  she  was  also  a  meddlesome  blunderer.  She 
put  Baireuth  on  the  map  of  Cook's  Trippers. 
She  botched  artistically  every  performance  she 
164 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF   COSIMA  I 

handled,  but  she  made  money;  her  banker- 
grandfather's  business  ability  she  must  have  in 
herited.  There  is  no  doubt  the  tragedy  of  Ger 
many  added  to  her  sorrows.  With  her  will  pass 
forever  the  once  powerful  Wagnerian  dynasty. 


165 


IDLE  SPECULATIONS 

IF  it  had  been  hinted  a  half  century  ago  that 
in  the  veins  of  Richard  Wagner  there  flowed 
Semitic  blood,  laughter  would  have  ensued. 
The  race  that  Wagner  reviled  in  speech  and 
pamphlet  —  though  he  never  disdained  its 
generosity  —  the  hated  Jew,  daring  to  claim 
kinship  with  him  might  have  set  in  motion  the 
spleen  of  the  German  master.  Wagner's  hatred 
of  the  chosen  race  is  historical.  "Das  Juden- 
thum  in  der  Musik,"  is  not  the  only  expression 
of  this  contempt  and  dislike  on  the  part  of  the 
man  who  was  born  in  a  Ghetto  at  Leipzig. 
Benefits  forgotten,  he  seldom  missed  a  chance 
to  gibe  at  Meyerbeer  or  Mendelssohn  or  to 
flout  some  Hebrew  banker  who  was  imprudent 
enough  to  advance  him  funds.  The  Wagnerian 
pedigree  has  been  subjected  to  critical  micro 
scopes.  Bournot,  who  was  patronized  by  Bai- 
reuth,  wrote  concerning  Ludwig  Geyer,  the  true 
father  of  the  composer,  that  his  family  had  been 
Lutheran  since  1700.  Which  proves  nothing; 
race,  not  nationality,  nor  yet  religion,  counts. 
Geyer,  from  whom  Richard  inherited  his  ver 
satile  aptitudes,  was  markedly  Jewish  in  features 
and  temperament.  So  was  Wagner.  Of  the 
putative  father,  a  Police  Magistrate,  we  know 
little.  In  his  autobiography  Wagner  avoids 
the  subject. 

166 


IDLE  SPECULATIONS 

But  Wagner's  mother,  born  Johanna  Bertz, 
reveals  in  her  portraits  marked  characteristics 
of  the  Jewish  race.  There  is  mystery  concern 
ing  her  origin;  even  the  name  of  Bertz  was  only 
discovered  a  few  years  ago.  Bertz,  too,  like 
Geyer,  is  a  Jewish  name.  There  is  in  the  po 
lemical  writings  of  Richard  an  almost  insane 
hatred  of  the  Jew;  and,  ironic  circumstance, 
in  his  music  there  are  the  sensuous  glow  and 
glitter  of  the  Oriental.  It  is  certainly  unlike 
any  music  made  by  a  German,  with  its  vibratile 
rhythms,  its  dramatic  characterization  and 
magnificent  decorative  frame.  "Was  Wagner 
German  at  all?''  demands  Nietzsche.  "We 
have  some  reasons  for  asking  this.  It  is  difficult 
to  discern  in  him  any  German  trait  whatsoever. 
Being  a  great  learner,  he  has  learned  to  imitate 
much  that  is  German.  His  character  itself  is 
in  opposition  to  what  has  hitherto  been  regarded 
as  German  —  not  to  speak  of  the  German  musi 
cian.  His  father  was  a  stage  player  named 
Geyer.  A  Geyer  is  almost  an  Adler  —  Geyer 
and  Adler  are  both  names  of  Jewish  families 
[Vulture  and  Eagle,  in  English].  What  has 
hitherto  been  put  into  circulation  as  the  'Life' 
of  Wagner  is  a  fable.  I  confess  my  distrust  of 
every  point  which  solely  rests  on  the  testimony 
of  Wagner  himself.  He  had  not  pride  for  any 
truth  about  himself;  nobody  was  less  proud. 
He  remained,  like  Victor  Hugo,  true  to  himself 
in  biographical  matters  —  he  remained  a  stage 
player." 

167 


VARIATIONS 

Thus  Nietzsche,  who  knew  whereof  he  spoke, 
as  he  was  the  secretary  of  the  composer  at  Trieb- 
schen  when  Richard  dictated  his  autobiography; 
not  an  official  secretary,  but  a  dear  friend  and 
confidant.  But  Nietzsche  must  be  taken  with 
reservations  in  the  Wagner  case.  He  alter 
nately  adored  and  abused  his  idol.  Another  of 
his  favorite  contentions  was  that  Schopenhauer 
ruined  Wagner's  art.  The  truth  is  that  in  Wag 
ner  the  artist  was  stronger  than  Wagner  the 
philosopher.  The  reflective  man  was  usually 
overcome  by  the  man  poetic.  Witness  Tristan 
and  Isolde,  composed,  as  Richard  confessed,  in 
direct  opposition,  nay,  defiance,  of  his  life's 
theories.  Wagner  began  with  Feuerbach  and 
ended  a  victim  to  the  fascinating  black  magic 
of  Schopenhauer.  But  now  we  know,  thanks 
to  James  Sully 's  magisterial  work  Pessimism, 
that  pessimism  and  optimism  are  a  question  of 
personal  temperament.  Wagner  succumbed  at 
the  last  to  the  Buddhistic  quietism  of  the  Scho- 
penhauerian  theories,  though  his  elastic,  op 
timistic  nature  rebelled  at  the  yoke.  In  the 
Ring  the  pessimism  never  crowds  out  the  vital 
dramatic  power.  In  Parsifal  the  vigorous  af 
firmations  of  the  earlier  Wagner  are  absent. 
He  said  Nay  to  the  life  that  had  exhausted 
him,  and,  bathed  in  a  mystic  atmosphere,  his 
soul  found  consolation  in  the  mere  contempla 
tion  of  Roman  Catholic  symbolism. 

Nevertheless,  hold  firmly  in  your  mind  that 
Richard  Wagner  the  artist  was  greater  than 

168 


IDLE  SPECULATIONS 

Wagner  the  vegetarian,  the  anti-vivisectionist, 
Socialist,  revolutionist,  Jew-hater,  and  foe  of 
Meyerbeer  and  Mendelssohn,  also  greater  than 
Wagner  the  philosopher  and  poet-dramatist. 
He  was  first  and  last  the  musician.  For  that 
reason  he  did  not  say  the  last  word  in  the  music- 
drama.  It  is  a  mistaken  partisanship  that  at 
taches  to  his  every  utterance  profound  signif 
icance.  We  should  gladly  exchange  his  col 
lected  prose  writings  for  another  Tristan.  He 
dearly  loved  a  paradox.  A  versatile  man,  he 
wore  many  masks.  Not  that  we  doubt  his 
sincerity,  but  that  his  emotional  nature,  his 
craving  for  excitement,  his  agitated  life  often 
led  him  to  speak  and  write  in  misleading  terms. 
He  seldom  put  his  best  foot  foremost  when  he 
took  up  the  pen.  And  the  Jews  he  reviled  al 
ways  proved  his  best  friends. 

We  have  often  wondered  where  Wagner's 
religion,  metaphysics,  his  working  theory  of 
life,  would  have  led  him  had  he  lasted  a  few 
years  longer.  That  in  his  extraordinary  brain 
there  had  been  dimly  floating  the  outlines  of  a 
greater  work  than  Parsifal  we  learn  from  his 
correspondence  with  Franz  Liszt.  He  died  with 
the  projected  Trilogy  incomplete.  Tristan  and 
Isolde,  Parsifal  and  the  Penitent  (Die  Biisser) 
were  to  have  composed  this  Trilogy  of  the  Will- 
to-Live,  Compassion  and  Renunciation.  That 
negation  of  the  Will- to -Live,  so  despised  by 
Nietzsche,  had  gripped  him  after  he  became 
acquainted  with  Schopenhauer's  theories  in 
169 


VARIATIONS 

1854.  He  eagerly  absorbed  this  Neo-Buddhism 
and  at  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  fully  pre 
pared  to  accept  its  final  word,  its  bonze-like 
impassivity  of  the  will.  In  Parsifal  he  sought 
to  transpose  to  tone  its  hopelessly  fatalistic 
spirit,  its  implacable  hatred  of  life  in  the  flesh. 
That  the  world  has  lost  a  gigantic  experiment 
may  be  true,  but  that  it  has  lost  the  best  of 
Wagner  we  doubt.  In  Parsifal  his  thematic 
invention  is  seldom  at  high-water  mark,  not 
withstanding  his  mastery  of  technical  material, 
his  marvellous  moulding  of  spiritual  stuff.  Parsi 
fal  is  an  abstraction,  while  Kundry  is  a  "howling 
hermaphrodite,"  as  Hanslick  tastefully  called 
the  poor  hunted  hind  and  harlot.  It  is  with 
Wagner's  power  of  characterization  that  we 
might  concern  ourselves,  as  the  composer  had 
drifted  into  a  philosophical  nihilism  —  that  in 
tellectual  quietism  which  is  a  treacherous  pitfall 
for  the  thinker  who  strays  across  the  border 
line  of  Asiatic  religions.  The  Christianity  in 
Parsifal  seems  like  the  last  expiring  glimmer  of 
its  values.  He  deftly  drew  upon  the  ritual  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  yet  in  the  essen 
tial  Christianity  of  the  result  we  place  no  faith. 
He  went  to  the  Buddhistic  roots  of  Chris 
tianity,  perhaps  for  philosophical  reasons.  How 
ever,  Nietzsche's  attack  on  Wagner's  supposed 
religious  predilections  is  wide  of  the  mark;  no 
one  was  less  likely  to  indulge  in  sacerdotal  sen- 
timentalism  than  the  musician.  The  fact  is 
that  all  was  grist  that  came  to  his  theatrical 
170 


IDLE  SPECULATIONS 

mill.  Despite  his  mysticism  he  never  lost  view 
of  the  box-office.  After  the  rude  knocks  of  his 
early  career  he,  like  Balzac,  realized  that  money 
is  the  Archimedes-lever  that  lifts  the  modern 
world.  Money  is  the  leading  motive  of  the 
Human  Comedy,  and  money  it  is  that  is  the 
ruling  idea  of  the  Ring.  The  speculation  is  at 
tractive.  He  changed  the  title  of  his  Trilogy 
from  The  Victors  (Die  Sieger)  to  The  Penitents. 
First  considered  in  1856,  the  name  was  altered 
a  quarter  of  a  century  later.  In  the  interval 
Oriental  philosophy  had  supervened  with  its  ac 
customed  effect. 

It  was  a  critic  of  acuity  who  said  of  Tristan 
and  Isolde  that  "the  thrills  relieve  each  other 
in  squads."  Wagner  touched  the  top-notch 
of  his  torrid  imaginings  in  this  apotheosis  of 
lyric  ecstasy.  Nothing  has  been  written  com 
parable  with  its  intensity;  its  double,  it  is  safe 
to  predict,  will  never  be  composed.  He  declared 
that  when  he  wrote  the  music  he  could  not 
have  made  it  otherwise.  It  is  full-blown  in  its 
imperfections,  glaring  excellences,  noble  tur- 
gidity,  lack  of  frugality,  economy  of  thematic 
resources,  dazzling  prodigality,  soggy  prolixity, 
riotous  tonal  debaucheries  and  almost  super 
human  enchantments.  What  boots  it  to  gird 
against  a  demoniacal  art  that  thrills  and  makes 
mock  of  theories  concerning  the  divine  in  music  ? 
We  are  no  longer  on  the  windblown  heights 
with  Beethoven,  nor  do  we  worship  as  in  the 
vast  Cathedral  of  Bach.  The  Schopenhauerian 
171 


VARIATIONS 

philosophy  hurled  at  us  in  the  pessimistic  dual 
ism  of  the  love  episode  avails  not  to  stem  the 
turbulent  current  of  fashion,  Tristan  and  Isolde 
is  the  very  deification  of  carnatism.  Call  it 
what  pretty  titles  you  may,  wreathe  the  theme 
with  poetic  garlands,  yet  the  stark  fact  stares 
at  you:  The  man's  desire  for  the  woman  and 
the  woman's  desire  for  the  desire  of  the  man, 
to  put  the  case  in  Biblical  phraseology.  The 
potion  does  but  unloosen  their  tongues; 
both  were  mute  lovers  before  Brangaene  juggled 
with  the  fatal  brew.  Wagner  was  the  greatest 
poet  of  passion  —  odious,  misused  term  —  in 
the  history  of  the  Seven  Arts.  And  he  had  a 
more  potent  instrument  than  words  at  his  com 
mand,  an  orchestra  that  wooes  and  thunders, 
that  achieves  in  the  surging  undertow  the 
soul  of  love,  A  mighty  master,  but  a  dangerous 
guide  is  this  same  Richard  Wagner. 


THE  MASTER  BUILDER 

THUS  far  this  season  we  have  heard  the  Hmd 

r-ir./  :::,::  •  c: 


Symphony  in  D,  the  second.  These  various 
performaiHTs  were  respectively  given  at  con 
certs  by  the  Symphony  Society,  the  Phffliar- 
monk  Society,  and  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra. 
Nor  were  they  timnaial  happenings.  The  sym 
phonic  works  of  Brahms  are  perennial  favorites 
in  New  York.  There  is  a  gnffirmg  reason. 
Brahms  is  a  transitional  bridge  between  the 
mighty  Beethoven  and  the  modern  men.  He 
is  the  last  of  the  classicists,  though  not  precisely 

the  firsf  nf  the  T"*IV*ntK'S      Sriiimiaitn  was  t^t  , 

not  Berlioz.  But  Brahms  is  more  romantic 
than  is  commonly  realized.  It  always  wfll  be 
a  mystery  to  the  present  generation  why  he  was 
called  a  pedant,  a  dry-as-dnst  composer.  He 
has  his  doll  moments,  when  philosopher-like  he 
contemplates  the  nrnbHirns  of  the  universe.  He 
is  not  dramatic  when  drama  is  not  demanded 
by  his  theme,  and  he  is  occasionally  drab  in 
orchestral  color,  though  never  brilliant  in  the 
meretricious  sense.  He  is  on  the  side  of  the 
angels.  He  stands  for  what  is  sound,  lofty, 
beautiful  as  opposed  to  shallow  operatic  trivi 
alities  and  melodramatic  effects. 


VARIATIONS 

It  was  unfortunate  that  almost  at  the  outset 
of  his  career  Edouard  Hanslick,  erudite,  witty, 
malignant,  should  have  posed  Brahms  as  an  an 
tithetical  man  of  straw  to  Richard  Wagner. 
Doubtless  it  was  a  tempting  contrast  to  make: 
Brahms,  the  serious  symphonist,  a  reverent  fol 
lower  in  the  broad  pathway  of  Bach  and  Bee 
thoven;  and  Wagner,  creator  of  the  music- 
drama,  of  marvellous  stage  pictures  —  romantic, 
erotic  Wagner.  Yet  what  a  fallacy  is  there. 
Brahms,  as  his  songs,  symphonies,  piano,  and 
violin  music  prove,  was  a  poetic,  a  romantic, 
musician.  He  could  not  paint  as  boldly  as 
Berlioz,  but  he  always  had  something  vital  to 
say,  while  Berlioz,  despite  his  grandiloquent 
rhetoric,  like  Victor  Hugo,  displayed  more  man 
ner  than  matter.  As  for  Wagner  —  well,  he, 
too,  absorbed  as  much  of  Bach  and  Beethoven 
as  he  could  assimilate  for  his  particular  usage, 
and  was  quite  as  learned  as  Brahms.  Von 
Billow  had  set  the  pace  for  Dr.  Hanslick  and  that 
detractor  of  Berlioz,  Liszt,  and  Wagner,  indeed 
of  all  the  New  Music  —  whenever  he  saw  a  head 
pop  up  on  the  horizon  he  hit  it,  like  the  game  of 
Aunt  Sally  —  recognized  his  opportunity  and 
promptly  pitted  Brahms  against  Wagner,  with 
the  result  that  for  a  long  period  the  musical 
world  labored  under  the  mistaken  notion  that 
Brahms  was  a  rusty,  musty  old  pedagogue,  with 
bewhiskered  counterpoint  and  a  plentiful  lack 
of  melodic  invention.  And  he  was  just  the 
reverse. 

174 


THE  MASTER  BUILDER 

He  died  over  two  decades  ago  and  his  vogue 
has  waxed  with  the  years.  When  we  consider 
the  list  of  his  achievements  we  are  amazed  at 
the  slow,  patient,  yet  fertile  and  versatile  quali 
ties  of  the  man.  "  Their  impatience,"  wrote 
John  Henry,  Cardinal  Newman,  in  condemning 
the  major  defect  of  heresiarchs.  Brahms  was 
ever  patient.  Patience  might  serve  as  his  epi 
taph.  His  was  a  genius  that  grew  from  accre 
tions.  His  first  opus  was  far  from  the  later 
Brahms,  notwithstanding  its  potential  powers. 
It  was  but  the  acorn  which  became  the  great 
oak  of  the  four  symphonies,  the  piano  and  the 
violin  concertos,  the  songs,  chamber  music, 
choral  compositions,  the  Songs  of  Destiny  and 
the  Requiem.  This  massed  work  is  the  sum 
total  of  a  high  ideal;  stern,  unyielding,  betimes 
frostily  inhuman,  yet  logical  and  consistent. 
The  philosophic  bent  of  his  intellect  extorts  our 
admiration.  For  a  half  century  he  pursued  the 
beautiful  in  its  most  difficult  and  elusive  form, 
followed  it  when  the  fashions  of  the  season 
mocked  at  such  undeviating  devotion,  when 
musical  structure  was  called  old-fashioned,  sober 
thought  voted  down  as  dull,  when  the  theatre 
had  invaded  the  tonal  realm  and  menaced  it  in 
its  very  stronghold,  the  symphony.  After  all, 
there  is  something  to  be  said  in  favor  of  the 
skeleton,  whether  concealed  by  human  flesh  or 
embodied  in  religious  dogma  or  encased  within 
the  formal  walls  of  musical  compositions. 
Things  must  have  structure  to  interest  mankind; 

175 


VARIATIONS 

even  the  prudish  oyster  has  a  shell.  Otherwise 
the  amorphous  shreds  of  the  floating  jellyfish  or 
the  primeval  amoebae  would  become  our  ideal. 
Brahms  was  homo  sapiens.  He  stood  on  his 
hind  legs,  as  did  our  common  forebears,  with 
" probably  arboreal  habits."  And  he  wrought 
the  noblest  music  since  Beethoven. 

He  is  the  first  composer  since  Beethoven  to 
sound  the  note  of  the  sublime.  Naturally, 
Wagner  is  excepted  because  he  did  not  write 
absolute  music,  and  we  are  now  dealing  only 
with  that  form.  Because  of  this  trait  of  sublim 
ity  Brahms  has  been  called  austere.  His  aus 
terity  and  lack  of  personal  profile  —  sometimes 
—  have  made  his  loftiest  music  difficult  of  com 
prehension.  He  never  splits  the  ears  of  the 
groundlings.  He  never  makes  any  concessions 
to  popularity.  Like  Ibsen  and  Manet,  he  goes 
out  of  his  way  to  displease.  The  facile  triumph 
he  despises.  He  saw  musical  Europe  filled  with 
second  and  third  rate  men,  and  he  noted  that 
their  sole  excuse  was  to  give  cheap  pleasure  to 
the  tasteless.  This  professional  parasitism  he 
abhorred;  with  him  the  reaction  became  a  species 
of  puritanism.  It  is  a  gratifying  proof  of  his 
flexible  mental  operations  that  he  understood 
and  admired  Wagner,  whose  ideals  and  practice 
were  the  antipodes  of  his  own.  His  workman 
ship  is  well-nigh  impeccable;  formal  and  con 
trapuntal  mastery  marks  it.  His  contribution 
to  the  techniques  of  rhythm  is  considerable. 
He  literally  popularized  the  cross-relation,  redis 
covered  the  arpeggio  and  elevated  it  to  an  in- 


THE  MASTER  BUILDER 

teger  of  the  melodic  phrase.  Wagner  did  the 
same  for  the  essential  turn. 

His  trait  of  fidelity,  his  spiritual  obstinacy, 
are  characteristic.  There  seems  to  be  a  notion 
because  Brahms  refused  to  swim  the  current 
tendencies  that  he  held  himself  aloof  from  hu 
manity,  a  bonze,  a  Brahmin,  and  not,  as  he 
really  was,  a  bard  chanting  its  woes  and  full- 
blooded  aspirations.  It  is  platitudinous  now 
adays  to  say  that  his  music  throbs  with  the  rich, 
red  blood  of  humanity.  He  is  the  greatest  con- 
trapuntalist  since  Bach  (pace  Richard  Strauss 
and  Max  Reger),  and  the  supreme  architectonist 
since  Beethoven.  Nevertheless,  in  his  songs  he 
is  as  simple  and  virile  as  Robert  Burns.  His 
topmost  peaks  are  remote  and  gleam  in  an  at 
mosphere  too  rarefied  for  dwellers  on  the  plains, 
but  how  intimate,  how  gracious  are  the  happy 
moments  in  his  chamber-music.  Following  the 
romantic  side  of  Schumann,  untouched  by  the 
fever  of  the  footlights,  a  realist  with  imagina 
tion,  both  a  classicist  and  a  romanticist,  he  con 
ducted  music  to  its  normal  channel  by  showing 
that  a  formal  service  and  a  mastery  of  polyphony 
are  not  incompatible  with  the  utterance  of  new 
ideas  in  a  new  way.  Brahms  is  not  reactionary 
any  more  than  is  Wagner.  Neither  found  what 
he  needed  in  contemporary  life  and  art,  so  one 
harked  back  to  the  Greeks  and  Gluck,  the  other 
to  Beethoven.  All  progress  is  crab  wise.  In 
the  past  of  the  arts  may  be  found  the  germs  of 
their  future. 

Study  the  massiveness  of  the  Brahmsian  tonal 
177 


VARIATIONS 

architecture;  study  those  tonal  edifices  erected 
after  years  of  toil,  consider  his  fertility  in  inven 
tion,  his  patience  in  developing  his  ideas;  con 
sider  the  ease  with  which  he  moves,  though 
seemingly  shackled  by  the  most  exacting  of 
forms,  a  form  not  assumed  for  the  sake  of  over 
coming  difficulties,  but  because  it  was  the  only 
form  in  which  he  could  fully  express  himself. 
The  narrative-tone  of  the  symphonic  form  — 
and  this  includes  aU  its  practitioners  from  Haydn 
to  Tschaikovsky  —  is  like  blank  verse,  it  has 
been  the  chosen  field  of  the  greatest  masters; 
and  who  shall  say  that  either  Shakespeare  or 
Beethoven  has  suffered  from  its  adoption? 
Even  such  a  Romantic,  mad  and  morbid,  as 
Charles  Baudelaire  employed  as  his  vehicles  of 
expression  forms  as  restricted  and  rigid  as  the 
sonnet  and  the  alexandrine.  Note  the  leaven 
of  genius  which  militates  against  pedantry, 
scholastic  aridity,  academic  music-making,  and 
music  arithmetical.  Consider  the  intellectual 
and  emotional  brain  —  for  the  seat  of  the  emo 
tions  is  in  the  head,  not  the  heart  —  of  this  com 
poser,  and  then  realize  that  all  art  is  the  arduous 
victory  of  great  minds  over  great  imaginations. 
Recall  the  introductions  to  the  first  and  last 
movements  of  the  Symphony  in  C  minor  by 
Brahms.  That  magnificent  work  makes  by 
comparison  other  men's  efforts  like  facile  im 
provising.  Its  bases  are  laid  for  the  brief  "  eter 
nity"  accorded  to  all  things  fashioned  by  mortal 
hands. 


THE  MASTER  BUILDER 

Brahms  ever  consciously  schooled  his  imagi 
nation.  He  was  his  own  severest  critic.  He 
worked  slowly,  produced  as  slowly,  and,  being 
of  the  contemplative  rather  than  of  the  dramatic, 
dynamic  temperamental  type,  he  incurred  the 
reproach  of  heaviness.  There  is  enough  sedi 
ment  in  his  collected  work  to  lend  truth  to  this 
accusation,  but  from  the  very  cloudiness  of  the 
ferment  has  come  the  richest  of  wines.  And 
how  refreshing  is  a  draft  of  this  wine  after 
the  thin,  frothing  stuff  concocted  at  the  vintage 
of  every  season !  He  has  his  metaphysical  mood 
when  he  wrestles  with  abstract  speculations,  as 
did  Pascal  or  Spinoza.  It  cannot  be  said  that 
Brahms,  the  cryptic  philosopher,  is  as  interest 
ing  as  Brahms  of  the  symphonies,  the  F  minor 
piano  sonata,  the  quintet  for  piano  and  strings 
with  the  same  key  signature,  or  the  fragrant 
lyrics.  He  has  the  glorious  simplicity  of  Bee 
thoven,  and,  like  that  Master  of  masters,  he  does 
not  fear  to  employ  such  an  elementary  modula 
tion-bridge  as  the  chord  of  the  dominant  seventh. 

A  full  chord  for  his  orchestra  has  not  the 
rainbow  tints  of  the  first  or  major  chord  in  the 
Prelude  to  The  Mastersingers,  yet  it  can  sink  a 
shaft  into  our  consciousness  quite  as  profound. 
He  is  a  thinker,  his  chilliness  is  rather  in  his 
manner  than  in  his  discourse,  which  often  is 
thrice  eloquent.  This  plodder,  at  times  with 
out  Promethean  fire,  possesses  shoulders  wide 
enough  upon  which  to  drape  the  symphonic 
mantle  of  Beethoven.  He  reminds  us  of  a 
179 


VARIATIONS 

mediaeval  architect  whose  life  was  a  prayer,  in 
marble;  who  patiently  built  Gothic  cathedrals 
which  majestically  flanked  upon  mother  earth, 
whose  thin  pinnacles  pierced  the  vasty  blue,  and 
in  whose  marmoreal  naves  an  army  terrible  with 
banners  could  worship;  while  through  the  stony 
forest  of  arches  music  flowed  as  the  voices  of 
many  waters.  Brahms  is  the  master-builder 
of  modern  music. 


180 


VERDI'S  OTELLO 

THE  announcement  that  Otello  is  to  be  pre 
sented  by  the  Chicago  Opera  Association  next 
Tuesday  evening  at  the  Manhattan  Opera 
House  is  interesting  to  lovers  of  Verdi's  hot- 
blooded  music  drama.  That  it  is  not  often  heard 
is  because  of  the  difficulty  in  finding  singing 
actors  to  interpret  the  work.  Since  Tamagno 
and  Victor  Maurel,  the  ideal  Otello  and  the 
ideal  lago,  we  have  had  no  two  such  interpreters. 
Antonio  Scotti  was  a  remarkable  lago,  and  from 
time  to  time  some  unhappy  tenor  attempts  to 
bend  the  bow  of  Ulysses,  but  the  two  artists 
who  set  the  town  on  fire  twenty-five  years  ago 
have  not  been  rivalled.  Tamagno  with  his  bar 
baric  cry,  "  Sangue,  sangue  "  -  "  Blood,  blood ! " 
—  is  unforgetable.  In  the  killing  of  Desde- 
mona  he  fell  short  of  his  great  dramatic  model, 
the  elder  Salvini,  because,  as  we  have  elsewhere 
related,  he  left  his  spectators  in  doubt  as  to  the 
disposition  of  the  pillow.  But  then  his  Desde- 
mona  was  the  lovely  Emma  Eames,  and  that, 
no  doubt,  accounted  for  the  indecision  of  the 
murderous  and  amorous  Moor  at  the  fatal 
moment. 

Otello  in  1887  set  the  musical  world  agog  with 
surprise,  curiosity,  and  delight.  It  reveals  little 
of  the  narrow,  noisy,  violent,  and  vulgar  Verdi 
181 


VARIATIONS 

of  1850.  The  character  drawing  is  by  a  man 
who  is  master  of  his  material.  The  plot  moves 
in  majestical  splendor  and  the  musical  psychol 
ogy,  especially  in  the  case  of  lago,  is  often  sub 
tle.  Verdi  has  at  last  flowered.  Much  of  his 
earlier  music,  despite  the  admirable  melodic 
flow  in  Traviata,  Rigoletto,  Trovatore,  smelling 
ranker  of  the  soil,  showing  abundant  thematic 
invention,  was  but  the  effort  of  a  hot-headed 
man  of  the  footlights,  a  seeker  after  applause 
and  money.  In  Otello  his  musical  provincial 
isms  have  well-nigh  vanished.  The  writing  is 
clear,  the  passion  controlled,  the  effects  aimed  at 
easily  compassed.  The  masterly  craft  of  lago 
is  cleverly  contrasted  with  the  fiery  passion  of 
Otello,  and  Shakespeare  is  suggested;  although 
an  Italian  Shakespeare.  However,  the  English 
poet  is  more  Italian  than  the  Italian  in  this 
moving  drama. 

Otello  is  veritable  music  drama;  its  composer 
seldom  halts  to  symphonize  his  events  as  does 
Wagner.  Arrigo  Boito,  most  intellectual  of 
librettists,  has  skeletonized  the  story;  Verdi's 
music  endows  it  with  vitality,  grace,  fleshly  con 
tours,  brilliancy.  The  Italian  poet  has  not 
gravely  disturbed  the  original  text.  It  is  but 
a  compliment  to  his  assimilation  of  the  Shake 
spearian  spirit  to  state  that  lago's  credo,  an 
explosion  of  nihilism  and  hatred,  does  not  seem 
out  of  perspective  in  the  picture.  It  is  an  in 
tercalation  of  Boito's,  as  were  the  Cypriote 
choruses  in  Act  II.  The  rest  is  Shakespeare 
182 


VERDI'S  OTELLO 

undented,  barring  a  few  happy  transpositions 
from  the  Senate  speech  to  the  duo  at  the  close 
of  Act  I. 

As  we  have  said,  the  characterization  is  mas 
terly  throughout.  Do  not  let  us  balk  at  com 
parisons,  nor,  for  that  matter,  at  superlatives. 
With  the  exceptions  of  Mozart  and  Wagner,  no 
composer  has  thus  far  lived  who  could  have 
painted  the  hot-blooded  Moor  and  the  cynical 
cannikin-clinker,  set  them  facing  each  other, 
allowing  them  to  work  out  their  fates,  musically 
speaking,  as  has  Giuseppe  Verdi.  The  key  to 
Otello  is  its  characterization.  The  medium  in 
which  Verdi  bids  his  puppets  of  destiny  to  move, 
their  fluidity,  their  humanity,  with  the  complete 
dissection  of  their  secret  springs  of  action  — 
these  elements  are  almost  incalculable.  Criti 
cism  can  only  endeavor  to  disentangle  them. 
Whether  he  is  listening  to  his  cunning  Ancient, 
or  caressing  Desdemona,  or  raging  like  the  hardy 
Numaean  lion,  it  is  always  Otello,  the  Moor  of 
Venice,  a  loving,  suffering,  living  man  —  Shake 
speare's  Othello  transposed  to  a  fresco  of 
magnificent  tones. 

The  character  does  not  evoke  a  flashy,  oper 
atic  ranter.  Nor  does  lago,  either  as  the  bluff 
soldier  or  the  loathsome  serpent  stinging  his 
chieftain's  soul,  ever  lag  dramatically,  ever 
mimic  the  conventional  attitudes  of  transpon 
tine  melodrama.  It  is  always  lago,  "the  spirit 
that  denies,"  perhaps  underlined,  for  music  must 
emphasize  the  emotions.  Desdemona  is  drawn 

183 


VARIATIONS 

in  relief  to  her  furious  lover  and  warrior,  and  as 
a  white  cloud  of  purity  in  contrast  with  her  cold 
blooded  maligner.  Verdi  has  assigned  her  gen 
tle  music,  the  Ave  Maria,  the  Willow  Song. 
She  is  a  sweet  background  upon  which  was 
etched  the  darker,  sinister  motives  of  the  play. 
No  masculine  shadow  but  her  lord's  has  been 
projected  across  her  snowy,  virginal  soul.  Deli 
cacy  and  vivacity  reveal,  little  by  little,  the 
inner  workings  of  her  girlish  nature.  The  other 
figures,  Cassio,  Emilia,  are  sketches  on  the  sec 
ond  plan,  but  figures  that  contribute  to  the 
density  of  the  dramatic  scheme  without  detract 
ing  from  our  interest  in  the  protagonists. 

From  the  opening  storm  to  the  strangling 
scene  the  music  flows  as  swiftly  as  does  the  action 
of  the  spoken  drama.  Rich,  varied,  eloquent, 
the  orchestra  seldom  tarries  in  its  acute  and 
vivid  commentary.  There  is  scant  employment 
of  typical  motives;  the  kiss  theme  in  Act  I  is 
sounded  with  psychologic  fidelity  when  Otello 
dies.  Only  in  the  handkerchief  trio  is  there 
pause  for  instrumental  elaboration;  but  in  the 
main  old,  set  forms  are  avoided,  and  while  there 
are  melodic  currents  they  seldom  crystallize. 
The  duo  at  the  end  of  Act  I,  the  Credo  of  un- 
faith  and  Otello's  frenzied  exhortation  in  Act 
II;  the  tremendous  outburst  in  the  following 
act,  with  lago's  sardonically  triumphant  ex 
clamation,  " Behold  the  lion!"  as  he  plants  his 
scornful  heel  on  the  recumbent  Otello  —  then 
the  final  catastrophe  —  these  about  summarize 
184 


VERDI'S  OTELLO 

the  high  lights.  Throughout  there  are  pictur 
esque  and  poignant  strokes,  effects  of  massed 
splendor,  and  hovering  about  the  tempest-stirred 
souls  is  an  atmosphere  of  gloom,  doom,  guilt, 
and  melancholy  foreboding. 

Verdi  felt  the  moods  of  the  poet  and  made 
them  live  again  in  his  score.  Otello  and  lago 
grow  before  our  eyes  and  ears  from  act  to  act. 
The  simple-hearted,  trusting  general  with  his 
agonized  cry,  "Miseria  mia,"  develops  into  a 
ferocious  savage  thirsting  for  blood.  He  is  the 
jealous  male,  who  sees  red.  The  multitudinous 
music  is  incarnadine  with  blood.  And  it  is 
all  vocal.  It  is  written  for  the  voice,  which  is 
the  centre  of  gravity  in  this  astounding  drama  of 
souls  bedevilled,  and  not  the  orchestra.  The 
pedestal  is  not  bigger  than  the  statue,  as  is  the 
case  with  Salammbo.  Another  such  lago,  sub 
tle,  sinister,  evil  incarnate,  withal  a  dangerously 
attractive  fellow,  such  an  impersonation  as 
Victor  Maurel's,  may  never  be  duplicated. 
And  this  remarkable  singing  actor  had  the  ad 
vantage  of  Verdi  and  Boito's  advice  when  the 
music  drama  was  produced  at  Milan,  in  1887. 
Verdi's  first  idea  of  a  title  was  lago.  This  idea 
does  not  seem  strange  after  a  performance  of 
Maurel. 

The  two  most  satisfying  lagos  I  remember 
were  Henry  Irving  and  Edwin  Booth.  Maurel's 
interpretation  paralleled  them  at  every  point. 
Admitted  that  the  singing  heightened  the  im 
pression,  though  it  weakens  the  characteriza- 


VARIATIONS 

tion,  MaurePs  lago  never  betrayed  a  tendency 
toward  the  melodramatic;  as  difficult  as  tread 
ing  on  eggs  without  crushing  them,  he  held  a 
middle  course,  and  he  was  both  a  picture  and  a 
dramatic  happening.  Malignant  he  was,  but 
that  is  the  "fat"  of  the  part,  but  he  underlined 
the  reasons  for  his  wicked  actions.  lago  is  also 
a  human  being  with  a  sound  motive  for  revenge. 
I  know  you  will  remind  me  that  critical  "white 
washing"  is  become  the  fashion,  that  Nero, 
Simon  Magus,  Judas  Iscariot,  Benedict  Arnold, 
Casanova  —  nay,  even  Lucifer,  Prince  of  Morn 
ing,  has  Anatole  France  for  a  defender  (in 
The  Revolt  of  the  Angels)  —  are  only  getting 
their  just  dues  at  the  hands  of  various  apolo 
gists.  De  Quincey,  a  master  casuist,  has  said 
that  without  Judas  the  drama  of  Jesus  cruci 
fied  would  not  have  occurred.  Everything  is 
necessary.  Nero  was  a  much-abused  monster, 
though  Renan  believes  him  to  be  the  Beast 
mentioned  in  the  Apocalpyse  —  it  seems  now 
that  there  were  no  "atrocities"  during  the  fab 
ulous  persecutions  of  the  Christians,  that  Rome 
was  not  burned  by  Nero,  who  had  no  fiddle 
technique;  but  in  the  case  of  lago  there  is 
something  to  be  said  in  his  favor.  A  pure 
devil,  as  we  conceive  devils  to  be,  he  was  not. 

A  rough,  hard-drinking  soldier  of  fortune,  he 
admits  himself  to  be,  and  to  call  his  advice,  "Put 
money  in  thy  purse,"  cynical  is  to  contravene 
worldly  wisdom.  Otello  had  wronged  him, 
lago  hated  him  for  it,  hated  his  wife  for  her  al- 
186 


VERDI'S  OTELLO 

leged  infidelity  —  Emilia  denies  her  treachery 
—  therefore,  his  revenge  is  credible.  It  is  his 
method  in  achieving  this  revenge  that  revolts 
our  sensibilities.  The  innocent  Desdemona  is 
crushed  between  the  upper  and  lower  millstones 
of  inexorable  destiny.  Maurel  did  not  paint  his 
conception  all  black,  but  with  many  gradations  „ 
and  nuances.  Not  a  movement  but  meant 
something;  even  that  famous  "psychological 
crook  of  lago's  left  knee."  Maurel  was  eco 
nomical  in  gesture.  His  was  an  objective  char 
acterization.  The  drinking  song  was  memo 
rably,  totally  unlike  his  drinking  lyrics  in  Don 
Giovanni  and  Hamlet.  Suffice  to  say  that 
Verdi  intrusted  him  with  the  difficult  task  of 
" originating"  two  such  widely-sundered  roles  as 
.Falstan"  and  lago.  With  them  Victor  Maurel 
made  operatic  history. 

And  now  what  is  the  most  surprising  thing 
about  Otello?  I  think  that  it  is  the  fact  that 
it  was  composed  when  Verdi  was  past  three 
score  and  ten.  This  seems  incredible.  It 
seethes  with  the  passion  of  middle  manhood, 
with  the  fervors  of  a  flowering  maturity.  No 
one  before  him  had  dreamed  of  setting  Shake 
speare  in  this  royally  tragic  fashion.  Rossini 
but  fluted  with  the  theme.  In  Verdi,  jealousy, 
love,  envy,  hatred,  are  handled  by  a  master 
music  dramatist.  It  is  a  wonderful  thing  that 
Verdi  began  it  at  a  time  when  most  men  are 
preparing  for  the  Great  Adventure.  Reversing 
the  usual  processes,  this  extraordinary  Italian 
187 


VARIATIONS 

wrote  younger  music  the  older  he  grew.  After 
Aida,  Otello.  After  grim  tragedy,  joyous  com 
edy —  Falstaffio.  If  he  had  survived  until 
ninety  years,  Verdi  might  have  bequeathed  us 
an  operetta  that  would  have  outpointed  in  wit 
and  sparkling  humor  the  mercurial  Johann 
Strauss.  And  when  we  think  of  the  later  Verdi 
we  should  not  forget  his  faithful  friend  and 
famulus,  who  played  Wagner  to  his  Faust  — 
Arriga  Boito. 


188 


FAUST  AND  MEPHISTO 

How  does  Faust  wear  in  the  flicker  of  the 
footlights?  Do  the  monologues  sound  with 
glorious  resonance  or  are  they  only  philosophical 
fustian?  The  question  is  not  difficult  to  answer. 
The  thunder-words  of  the  poet-dramatist  still 
thrill  us  with  their  meaning  and  with  their 
music,  the  clash  of  souls  still  makes  thrall  of 
our  imagination.  To  read  Faust  is  to  attain 
the  summit  of  an  intellectual  peak  of  Darien. 
To  witness  an  adequate  performance  of  Faust 
is  to  win  fresh  pleasure  for  eye  and  ear.  If  Ham 
let  inspired  Goethe  and  Marlowe  before  Shake 
speare,  his  Faust  in  turn  created  a  memorable 
literature.  The  very  title  crowds  pages  in  ency 
clopaedias.  Sculptors  chisel  masterpieces  after 
reading  the  poem-play;  the  Mephisto  of  the 
Russian  Antokolsky  is  not  easily  forgotten  and 
George  Grey  Barnard  was  inspired  by  the  famous 
line,  "Two  spirits,  alas,  reside  within  my  breast" 
(the  group  is  now  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum). 
Painters,  almost  innumerable,  from  Ary  Scheffer 
to  the  rawest  art  student  of  yesteryear  have 
traced  on  the  canvas  the  loves  of  Gretchen  and 
Faust.  Barbier  and  Carre  mutilated  the  poem 
in  search  of  effective  theatrical  material,  and 
Gounod  melted  with  sensuous  ecstasy  when  he 
made  the  musical  setting.  Lenau  presented  a 
sinister,  half -mad  Faust,  a  self-portrait;  the 


VARIATIONS 

conservative  Spohr  surrounded  the  story  with 
antiquated  music.  Wagner,  perhaps  more  than 
other  composers,  realized  the  travailing  Faust 
spirit  in  his  overture,  which  is  a  masterpiece. 
Franz  Liszt  has  of  all  men  evoked  within  the 
walls  of  his  symphonic  palace  both  the  static 
and  dynamic  Faust  and  the  Gretchen  of  our 
dreams.  His  Mephisto  is  the  cynical  spirit  of 
denial.  Berlioz,  as  in  a  tremendous  fresco,  has 
painted  with  torrential  energy  the  infernal 
glories  of  the  theme.  He  even  dragged  his  hero 
to  Hungary  so  that  he  might  give  him  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  the  Rakoczy  March  as  or 
chestrated  by  the  audacious  Frenchman.  Arrigo 
Boito,  only  half  Latin,  with  Polish  blood  in  his 
veins,  has  given  us  the  ideal  Mephisto  and  dared 
the  impossible  by  composing  the  second  part 
of  Goethe's  master  work. 

In  song  Gretchen  has  been  celebrated  from 
Schubert  to  the  troubadour  of  yesterday.  In 
romance,  Turgenieff,  that  gentle  giant,  has  de 
picted  the  soul  of  Faust  transposed  to  Russian 
soil.  What  the  Faust  spirit  worked  in  an 
unbalanced  temperament  may  be  noted  in 
Nietzsche,  whose  later  rhapsodies  stemmed 
from  Euphorion's  song  in  the  Second  Part: 
"Let  me  be  skipping.  Let  me  be  leaping.  To 
soar  and  circle  through  ether  sweeping  is  now 
the  passion  that  me  hath  won."  Therein  is 
the  kernel  of  the  dancing  philosopher,  Zara- 
thustra,  who  called  man  "a  bridge  connecting 
animal  and  superman."  And  recall  the  line  in 
190 


FAUST  AND   MEPHISTO 

Faust:  "Die  ird'sche  Brust  im  Morgenrot," 
which  served  as  a  title  for  one  of  the  unhappy 
philosopher's  sanest  books.  Goethe  is  the  ma 
trix  of  modern  thought;  he  contained  Wagner 
as  he  contained  Nietzsche.  Wagner,  of  course, 
went  to  Schopenhauer  for  his  peculiar  brand 
of  pessimism.  You  can't  miss  the  Faustlike 
touches  in  Tannhauser;  the  thirst  for  illimit 
able  pleasure,  the  redemption  of  the  eternal- 
womanly  —  all  this  is  Faust  redivivus.  John 
Addington  Symonds  laments  that  Marlowe  did 
not  follow  his  Doctor  Faustus  with  a  Tann 
hauser.  "He  assuredly  would  have  not  suffered 
this  high  mystic  theme  to  degenerate  into  any 
mere  vulgarities  of  a  sensual  Venusberg,"  wrote 
the  Englishman,  with  one  eye  fastened  on  Wag 
ner's  version  of  the  wonderful  legend.  No  trivial 
thirst  for  carnal  pleasures  but  the  desire  for 
beauty  beyond  human  reach  would  have  been 
Marlowe's  conception  of  the  brave  old  tale. 
Lohengrin  is  a  Faust,  so  is  Siegfried.  Parsifal 
is  Faust  in  the  vapors  of  mysticism,  enveloped 
by  a  Buddhistic  pity;  surely  the  "Good  Friday 
spell"  was  born  of  that  exquisite  episode  near 
the  close  of  Act  I  in  Faust,  where  the  poet- 
philosopher  gives  over  his  contemplated  suicide, 
ravished  by  sweet  memories  of  his  youth,  his 
Sabbath  wandering  in  spring  woods  and  mead 
ows. 

At  one  time  Goethe  thought  of  translating 
Marlowe.     His  music  is  magical.     It  colored 
Shakespeare;  it  created  a  new  dramatic  school. 
191 


VARIATIONS 

Marlowe  is  the  father  of  English  tragedy.  What 
if  Shakespeare  had  died  at  the  same  age  as  Mar 
lowe?  "We  may  admit  that  in  rhyme  he  never 
did  anything  worth  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Lean- 
der,"  says  Swinburne.  Charles  Lamb  adored 
Marlowe,  though  he  mocked  the  "pampered 
jades  of  Asia."  Yet  the  hand  that  fashioned 
the  turgid  and  bombastic  Tamburlane  also 
penned  that  lovely  lyric  "  Come  lie  ["live,"  in  re 
vised  editions]  with  me  and  be  my  love"  (The 
Passionate  Shepherd).  It  is  as  sparklingly  pure 
as  a  bar  of  Mozart.  But  Marlowe  is  more  dra 
matic  poet  than  dramatist.  His  characters  are 
set  forth  with  a  mass  of  psychologic  details 
that  recall  some  modern  masters.  He  is  an 
early  Browning  with  a  mouth  of  gold.  His 
words  sing.  Yet  he  would  never  have  written 
the  last  speech  of  Paracelsus:  "I  press  God's 
lamp  close  to  my  breast;  its  splendor  soon  or 
late  will  pierce  the  gloom."  Marlowe  was  not 
a  believer.  The  desperate  damnation  of  his 
Faust  chills  the  blood.  "Where  gods  are  not, 
ghosts  abound."  Marlowe  could  surround  his 
unhappy  hero  with  all  the  machinery  of  diab 
olism;  Beelzebub,  Prince  of  Flies,  the  Seven 
Deadly  Sins,  imps  and  goblins.  He  could  utter 
that  thrilling  line,  "See  where  Christ's  blood 
streams  in  the  firmament,"  but  he  had  not  the 
talent  of  belief  —  for  it  is  both  a  gift  and  talent, 
belief  in  the  unseen.  If  he  had  with  Browning's 
Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  come,  he 
would  have  died  hopeless,  impenitent,  as  in 
192 


FAUST  AND  MEPHISTO 

reality  he  did  die.  His  Faust  is  the  archetype 
of  the  explorer  in  the  "unplumbed,  salt,  estrang 
ing  sea"  of  knowledge.  He  cries: 

"Had  I  as  many  souls  as  there  be  stars  I'd 
give  them  all  for  Mephistopheles."  He  craves 
eternal  wisdom,  "  infinite  richness  in  a  little 
room."  Mephistopheles  has  built  for  him  the 
walls  of  Thebes  with  ravishing  music.  He  would 
fain  have  this  devil  "wall  all  Germany  with 
brass."  He  sees  Lucifer,  "chief  lord  and  regent 
of  the  night,"  and  still  are  his  longings  unas- 
suaged.  This  feverish  simulacrum  of  a  man 
who  aspired  to  know  things  terrestrial  and 
celestial  Marlowe  incarnated  in  his  tragedy. 

And  what  horrors  he  conjures  up  in  Mephis- 
topheles's  description  of  Hades  —  a  description 
less  material,  nevertheless  revealing  a  grandeur 
of  conception  second  only  to  Dante's.  This 
damned  creature  of  the  English  poet  stands 
for  men  who  achieve  victories  or  defeats  by  the 
force  of  their  intellect.  Faust  summons  spirits 
from  the  vasty  deep,  converses  with  them  when 
they  come,  argues,  even  wrangles,  and  would 
circumvent  them  in  discussion.  Spiritual  ex 
plorers  from  Giordano  Bruno  to  Spinoza  and 
Nietzsche  are  Fausts.  And  on  the  plane  scien 
tific  so  are  Galileo  and  Darwin  and  Einstein. 
All  who  slough  off  decaying  half-truths  are 
Fausts  who  must  suffer  for  their  frankness  the 
plagues  of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil. 
Sordello's  "Dante,  pacer  of  the  shore,"  was 
a  mediaeval  Faust  whose  richly  veined  ore  is 

193 


VARIATIONS 

half  hidden  in  the  clay  of  scholasticism.  And 
so  the  mountains  converse  with  mountains, 
Dante  with  Goethe,  Bach  with  Beethoven, 
Marlowe  with  Browning. 

Human  insects,  slowly  toiling  to  the  summits, 
from  time  to  time  catch  glimpses  of  trailing 
cloud-glories  and  overhear  the  far-off  rumblings 
of  divine  events.  Then  the  mists  part  and  an 
other  Faust  comes  to  earth,  telling  us  of  the 
strange  secrets  he  has  surprised.  "A  sound 
magician  is  a  mighty  god/'  sings  Marlowe. 
Goethe  said:  "Gray  are  all  theories  and  green 
alone  life's  golden  tree."  To  read  Marlowe  is 
to  feel  the  itch  of  quotation.  Has  there  ever 
been  anything  more  vivid  or  pitiable  since  Dante 
than  the  English  poet's  Edward  II,  in  his  "cave 
of  care,"  standing  in  mire  and  puddle,  "and 
lest  I  should  sleep,  one  plays  continually  upon  a 
drum  "  ?  It  is  Chinese  in  its  hideous  suggestion 
of  torture;  we  must  go  to  Octave  Mirbeau's  Le 
Jardin  des  Supplices,  or  the  newly  published 
fiction  of  Charles  Petit,  Le  Fils  du  Grand  Eu- 
nuque,  for  its  match.  Faust  is  a  fatalist;  "his 
atheism  has  a  background  of  terror  thinly  veiled 
by  the  mind's  inquisitiveness."  Che  sara,  sara ! 
he  declares,  and  then  berates  his  satanic  famulus 
for  showing  him  so  little.  He  knows  that  the 
jealous  gods  have  somewhere  buried  proofs  of 
the  origin  of  all  things,  and,  like  Maurice  de 
Guerin,  he  would  have  demanded:  "But  upon 
the  shores  of  what  ocean  have  they  rolled  the 
stone  that  hides  them?" 
194 


BOHEMIAN  MUSIC 

IN  New  Cosmopolis  I  called  Prague  the  most 
original  city  in  Europe,  not  perhaps  so  melo 
dramatic  as  Toledo  in  Spain,  yet  quite  as  orig 
inal,  when  you  consider  that  pretty,  placid 
Dresden  is  only  four  hours  away  and  that  fur 
ther  down  the  map  lies  Vienna.  As  the  traveller 
approaches  the  Bohemian  city  —  as  Praha  it 
is  known  to  the  natives  —  the  cathedral  and 
castles  grouped  on  the  hill  form  a  fascinating 
silhouette  against  the  sky-line.  At  once  the 
alluring  prospects  of  wood  and  architecture  are 
evoked,  and  to  the  memory  comes  ?  the  sangui 
nary  pages  of  its  history.  Arthur  Symons  once 
wrote  that  to  a  Bohemian  "Prague  is  still  the 
epitome  of  his  country;  he  sees  it  as  a  man  sees 
the  woman  he  loves,  with  her  first  beauty,  and 
he  loves  it  as  a  man  loves  a  woman,  more  for 
what  she  has  suffered."  Needless  to  add,  for 
me  it  was  love  at  first  sight,  this  Prague,  with 
its  imperial  palace  and  the  Hradschin  fortress 
so  proudly  perched  on  the  Hradcany;  the  pin 
nacle  of  the  St.  Vitus  Cathedral,  the  four 
Ottakan  towers  and  the  two  towers  of  St. 
George,  which  swim  so  gloriously  in  the  air, 
a  miracle  of  tender  rose  and  marble  white,  with 
golden  spots  of  sunshine,  form  an  ensemble 
that  would  intrigue  the  brush  of  Claude  Monet. 


VARIATIONS 

The  city  proper  enchants  with  its  bewilder 
ing  jumbles  of  architecture,  its  historical  evoca 
tions.  The  Bridge  of  Prague,  the  Town  Hall, 
the  Powder  Tower,  the  historic  Tyn  church, 
the  old  Jewish  cemetery,  the  Belvedere,  the 
Chapel  of  St.  Wenceslas,  the  shrine  of  St.  Nepo- 
muc,  the  Star  Hunting  Lodge,  where  in  1620 
was  fought  the  Battle  of  the  White  Mountain, 
the  Rudolphinium  —  to  go  on  like  this  would 
send  you  to  the  guide-books.  There  is  the  mod 
ern  Representatives  House,  where  you  may 
enjoy  a  symphony  concert  up-stairs,  while  in 
the  restaurant  on  the  first  floor  you  can  eat  an 
omleba  royal,  a  Fogos  fish,  a  Telec  filet  specanky 
and  Ledovy  creme,  ending  with  an  Americky 
compote,  and  —  tell  it  not  in  Gath  —  good  light 
wine  is  to  be  had,  or  the  incomparable  product 
of  Pilsen,  there  pronounced  Pizn.  I  stopped  at 
the  "Blauer  Stern,"  on  the  Hybernska  Ulice, 
which  old-fashioned,  comfortable  hotel  has 
probably  changed  its  name  since  the  war.  Even 
in  1913  anything  German  was  anathema  to 
the  Bohemians.  There  is  the  Bohemian  Na 
tional  Theatre.  Both  Josef  Stransky  of  the 
Philharmonic  Society  and  Artur  Bodanzky  of 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  and  the  New 
Symphony  Orchestra  were  some  years  ago  con 
ductors  at  Prague.  One  afternoon  in  the  Rep 
resentatives  House  I  listened  to  a  programme 
composed  of  national  music  —  the  Scherzo  a 
Capriccioso  of  Dvorak,  a  symphony  by  Sme- 
tana,  a  symphonic  poem  by  Josef  Suk  and  a 
196 


BOHEMIAN  MUSIC 

work  by  Sdenko  Fibich,  the  latter  a  composer 
too  little  known  here,  whose  piano  composi 
tions  were  introduced  to  us  more  than  a  decade 
ago  by  Florence  Mosher  and  Emily  Burbank 
at  their  lecture-recitals.  One  gray  morning  I 
went  astray  while  wandering  about  the  twist 
ing  corridors  of  the  "Blauer  Stern"  and, 
tempted  by  the  sounds  of  masterly  violin  play 
ing,  I  stood  before  a  door  which  bore  the  legend : 
"  Otokar  Sevcik."  It  might  have  been  his  pupils, 
Jan  Kubelik  or  Kocian,  though  it  was  neither. 
I  had  seen  the  brilliant  Kubelik  at  Marienbad, 
where  I  went  annually  to  fight  my  fat  and  also 
to  war  with  the  rum  demon  —  temporarily. 
Since  then  Sevcik,  the  great  teacher  of  aspiring 
fiddlers,  has  removed  to  Vienna. 

I  mention  these  things  concerning  the  delight 
ful  city  of  Ema  Destinova,  Thomas  Masaryk 
—  who  married  a  New  York  lady,  one  of  the 
Misses  Garrigue  of  the  well-known  musical 
family;  of  the  city  wherein  Mozart  composed 
his  masterpiece,  Don  Giovanni  — "in  order  to 
express  the  thanks  of  the  great  master  to  his 
' dearest  citizens  of  Prague'  for  their  ardent 
reception";  that  Prague  which  is  so  dramatic 
to  gaze  upon,  the  Slavic  city  further  west,  the 
gateway  to  the  Slavic  lands  —  because  I  have 
just  read  with  considerable  satisfaction  a  slender 
pamphlet  of  fifty  pages  entitled  The  Music  of 
Bohemia,  by  Ladislav  Urban,  published  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Czecho-Slovak  Art  Clubs 
of  New  York  City.  The  author  calls  his  de- 
197 


VARIATIONS 

cidedly  interesting  contribution  a  sketch,  but 
it  is  a  sketch  in  which  is  compressed  much  valu 
able  matter.  At  the  start  he  tells  us  that 
"Czech"  is  the  Slav  name  for  the  Slav  people 
and  language  in  Bohemia,  Moravia  and  Silesia. 
The  terms  used  to  designate  the  whole  country, 
the  state,  are  ' Bohemia'  and  'Bohemian/  The 
Czechs  themselves  do  not  employ  this  distinc-, 
tion,  continues  Mr.  Urban,  but  use  the  word 
Czech  in  both  senses.  Slovaks  are  that  people 
who  live  in  the  northwestern  part  of  Hungary, 
called  Slovakia,  which  with  Bohemia  forms  the 
present  republic  and  nation  of  the  Czecho 
slovaks.  Mr.  Urban  warns  us  not  to  confound 
Bohemians  and  gypsies,  and  cites  Balfe's  Bohe 
mian  Girl  as  an  instance:  a  full-fledged  Czech 
folk-melody  is  introduced  as  a  gypsy  tune  in 
the  allegro  theme  of  the  overture. 

There  has  been  bad  blood  between  the  Bohe 
mians  and  Germans  since  the  reign  of  King 
Wenceslas  (921-935  A.  D.).  After  his  assassina 
tion,  Wenceslas  was  canonized  and  is  a  national 
saint;  a  folk-song,  known  as  the  Choral  of  St. 
Wenceslas,  is  one  of  the  oldest  among  its  kind. 
The  John  Huss  reformation  also  aroused  the 
nation,  and  a  battle  hymn,  "Ye  warriors  who 
for  God  are  fighting,"  was  another  product  of 
the  folk.  Bohemia  has  always  been  a  musical 
nation,  as  Mr.  Urban  proves  by  numerous  cita 
tions.  Its  folk-song  literature  is  rich  and  varied. 
He  quotes  from  Seth  Watson's  Racial  Problems 
in  Hungary:  "Singing  is  the  chief  passion  of 
198 


BOHEMIAN  MUSIC 

the  Slovaks.  Nothing  will  find  its  way  so  surely 
to  the  heart  of  the  Slovak  people  as  a  well-sung 
song.  An  old  peasant  woman  once  complained 
to  a  friend  of  mine  that  her  son  was  a  useless, 
disappointing  fellow.  'What  was  the  matter?' 
inquired  my  friend;  'did  he  drink  or  would  he 
not  work?'  'Oh,  no,'  said  the  old  woman; 
'but  nothing  will  make  him  sing.  It's  a  great 
misfortune."3  Rather  a  companionable  sort, 
we  think  —  a  young  man  who  doesn't  sing, 
whistle  or  make  other  disagreeable  noises  would 
be  a  prize  in  our  noisy  Tophet  of  New  York. 

The  polka  must  be  credited  to  Bohemia;  it 
was  invented  about  1830  by  a  country  girl. 
This  sounds  a  trifle  doubtful,  as  the  dance - 
called  polka,  rather  pulka,  because  of  the  half 
step  —  is  as  old  as  the  immemorial  hills  of  Bo 
hemia,  I  have  been  informed  by  Bohemian 
critics.  There  is  a  polka  in  Smetana's  The 
Bartered  Bride,  also  a  furiant,  which  means, 
we  are  told,  "a  boasting  farmer."  Dvorak  in 
his  first  symphony  introduces  a  furiant  in  the 
place  of  a  scherzo.  But  Mr.  Urban  is  not  se 
duced  into  that  most  platitudinous  of  errors, 
to  wit,  that  the  people  make  a  nation's  music. 
He  writes  with  admirable  clearness  on  the  sub 
ject:  "It  is  no  wonder  that  the  richness  of  folk- 
art  was  overestimated  in  Bohemia  at  the  be 
ginning  of  the  last  century,  and  led  to  an  error. 
Folk-art  was  confused  with  nationality  in  art. 
A  false  principle  was  constructed  that  'national 
art'  must  be  based  upon  folk-music.  Thus  the 
199 


VARIATIONS 

imitation  of  folk-poetry  and  folk-melodies  was 
approved  as  the  real  national  art.  It  is  aston 
ishing  how  long  this  principle,  violating,  as  it 
did,  the  national  law  of  progress,  could  endure. 
All  works  of  this  feverish,  would-be-national 
period  belong  to  history.  They  live  no  more, 
being  but  imitations."  In  a  footnote  to  this 
inexpugnable  statement  the  author  adds  with  his 
accustomed  acuity:  "The  matter  was  also  dis 
cussed  in  America,  where  some  people  saw  na 
tional  American  music  under  the  guise  of  Indian 
music.  Nothing  is  easier  for  a  composer  than  to 
imitate  the  melodies  of  different  nations,  preserv 
ing  their  rhythmical  or  melodic  mannerisms." 
He  might  have  joined  negro  to  Indian  as  our 
national,  so-called,  musical  characteristics.  But 
there  are  no  more  Indians,  in  a  tribal  sense, 
and  as  to  negro  music,  the  best  of  it  was  com 
posed  by  white  men,  notably  Stephen  Foster. 
Why  should  Afro-American  folk-tunes  represent 
America?  In  MacDowell's  Indian  Suite  there 
are  authentic  Indian  themes,  while  in  Dvorak's 
From  the  New  World  the  negroid  tunes  are 
mere  suggestions;  the  rhythms  of  Yankee 
Doodle  are  faintly  heard  as  a  contrapuntal 
device;  in  a  word,  the  Americanism  of  Dr. 
Dvorak's  plenary  composition  is  as  American 
as  his  own  name,  not  to  mention  the  fact  that 
its  chief  motto  is  taken  from  Schubert's  un 
finished  symphony  (Tchaikovsky  went  to  the 
same  source  for  the  principal  theme  of  his  E 
minor,  the  fifth,  symphony,  hence  the  accusa- 
200 


BOHEMIAN  MUSIC 

tion  that  Dvorak  borrowed  from  the  Russian. 
Arcades  ambo !)  But  the  negro  folk- tune  as 
a  basic  element  for  the  American  composer  was 
short-lived.  Its  logical  conclusion  landed  us 
in  the  dubious  and  never  delectable  region  of 
ragtime,  and  there  let  it  lie  forever.  The  musi 
cal  culture  of  America  must  have  its  roots  in 
more  national  soil,  must  stem  from  neither  the 
aboriginal  natives  nor  yet  from  the  one-time 
slaves.  It  must  be  American  or  it  will  not  be  at 
all.  At  present  our  supreme  composer  is  Charles 
Martin  Loeffler,  by  virtue  of  his  individual 
genius.  I  suspect  all  map-music;  patriotism 
may  cloak  humbuggery  —  or  worse  (Dr.  John 
son  says  it  does).  So  let  us  first  make  good 
music,  and  the  national  ingredients  will  take 
care  of  themselves. 

Mr.  Urban  devoted  special  sections  to  the 
chief  composers  of  Bohemia  —  Bedrich  Sme- 
tana,  Antonin  Dvorak,  Zdenko  Fibich,  Vitezslav 
Novak,  and  Josef  Suk.  There  are,  of  course, 
many  others,  but  within  the  scope  of  his  little 
study  these  five  suffice.  Naturally,  the  palm 
of  superiority  is  awarded  Smetana,  whose  music 
we  heard  last  season,  thanks  to  Josef  Stransky, 
himself  a  Bohemian.  Smetana  is  the  Bohemian 
composer  par  excellence.  There  is  a  foreign 
alloy  in  Dvorak,  especially  the  later  Dvorak, 
that  rules  him  from  entering  into  competition 
with  his  fellow-countryman.  Dvorak  remained 
a  peasant  even  in  his  best  works,  which  were 
written  before  he  came  to  New  York  in  1892. 
201 


VARIATIONS 

The  New  World  Symphony  is  pleasing  and 
wears  well,  notwithstanding  its  unblushing 
plagiarisms  —  that  excerpt  from  the  Venusberg 
bacchanale  in  Tannhauser  quite  takes  your 
breath  away;  quotation  marks  are  sadly  needed 
in  music !  —  but  it  remains  presumably  Czechish, 
and  only  faintly  American.  We  much  prefer 
his  earlier  Slavic  Dances,  the  orchestral  scherzo 
and  the  Husitzka  overture.  As  for  the  newer 
men,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  Bodanzky  and 
Stransky  and  Stokowski  —  conductors  nowa 
days  seem  to  be  sky-high  —  will  give  them  all 
a  hearing.  Quality,  not  quantity,  rules  Bohe 
mian  music,  a  music  racy  of  the  national  soil, 
nevertheless  not  without  the  larger,  profounder 
accents  of  universal  music. 


202 


THE  MUSIC  OF  YESTERDAY? 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  fact  that  he  played 
the  flute  and  ranked  Rossini  above  Wagner, 
Arthur  Schopenhauer  said  some  notable  things 
about  music.  Here  is  a  wise  observation  of 
his:  "Art  is  ever  on  the  quest,  a  quest  and  a 
divine  adventure;"  although  this  restless  search 
for  the  new  often  ends  in  plain  reaction,  prog 
ress  may  be  crabwise  and  still  be  progress. 
We  fear  "progress,"  as  usually  understood,  is 
a  glittering  "general  idea"  that  blinds  many 
to  the  truth.  Reform  in  art  is  like  reform  in 
politics.  You  can't  reform  the  St.  Matthew 
Passion  music  or  the  fifth  symphony.  Is  Par 
sifal  a  reformation  of  Gluck?  This  talk  of  re 
forms  is  confusing  the  historic  with  the  aesthetic. 
Art  is  a  tricksy  quantity  and,  like  quicksilver, 
is  ever  mobile.  As  in  all  genuine  revolutions, 
the  personal  equation  counts  the  heaviest,  so 
in  dealing  with  the  conditions  of  music  at  the 
present  time  we  ought  to  study  the  tempera 
ment  of  our  music-makers  and  let  prophecy 
sulk  in  its  tent  as  it  may. 

One  thing  is  certain:  The  old  tonal  order  has 
changed  forever;  there  are  plenty  of  signs  and 
wonders  in  the  musical  firmament  to  prove  this. 
Moussorgsky  preceded  Debussy  in  his  use  of 
whole-tone  harmonies,  and  a  contemporary  of 
203 


VARIATIONS 

Debussy  and  an  equally  gifted  musician,  Charles 
Martin  Loeffler,  was  experimenting  before  De 
bussy  in  a  dark  but  delectable  harmonic  region. 
The  tyranny  of  the  diatonic  and  chromatic 
scales,  the  tiresome  revolution  of  the  major 
and  minor  modes,  the  critical  Canutes  who  sit 
at  the  edge  of  the  musical  sea  and  say  to  the 
modern  waves,  "Thus  far  and  no  further!" 
and  then  hastily  abandon  their  thrones  and  rush 
to  safety,  else  to  be  overwhelmed  —  all  these 
are  of  the  past,  whether  in  art,  literature,  music, 
or  —  let  Nietzsche  speak  —  in  ethics.  Even 
philosophy  has  changed  its  garb  and  logic  is 
"a  dodge,"  as  Prof.  Jowett  used  to  say.  Every 
stronghold  is  being  assailed,  from  the  "divine" 
rights  of  property  to  the  common  chord  of  C 
major. 

If  Ruskin  had  written  music-criticism  he 
might  have  amplified  the  connotations  of  his 
famous  phrase,  the  "pathetic  fallacy,"  for  we 
consider  it  a  pathetic  fallacy  (though  not  in 
the  Ruskinian  sense)  in  criticism  to  be  over 
shadowed  by  the  fear  that,  because  some  of 
our  predecessors  misjudged  Wagner,  Manet 
and  Ibsen,  we  should  be  too  tender  in  our  judg 
ments  of  our  contemporaries.  Here  is  "the 
pathos  of  distance"  run  to  seed.  The  music 
of  to-day  may  be  the  music  of  to-morrow,  but 
if  not,  what  then  ?  It  may  satisfy  the  emotional 
needs  of  the  moment,  yet  become  a  stale  formula 
to-morrow.  What  does  that  prove?  Though 
Bach  and  Beethoven  built  their  work  on  the 
204 


THE  MUSIC  OF  YESTERDAY? 

broad  bases  of  eternity  —  employing  that  tre 
mendous  term  in  a  limited  sense;  no  art  is  "eter 
nal"  -  —  nevertheless,  one  may  enjoy  the  men 
whose  music  is  of  slight  texture  and  " modern." 
Nor  is  this  a  plea  for  mediocrity.  Mediocrity 
we  shall  always  have  with  us;  mediocrity  is 
mankind  in  the  normal,  and  normal  man  de 
mands  of  art  what  he  can  read  without  running, 
hear  without  thinking.  Every  century  pro 
duces  artists  who  are  forgotten  in  a  generation, 
though  they  fill  the  ear  for  a  time  with  their 
clever  production.  This  has  led  to  another 
general  idea,  that  of  transition,  of  intermediate 
types.  But  after  critical  perspective  has  been 
attained,  it  will  be  seen  that  the  majority  of 
composers  fall  into  this  category  of  the  transi 
tional;  not  a  consoling  notion,  but  an  unavoid 
able  conclusion.  Richard  Wagner  had  his  epi 
gones.  And  so  had  Haydn,  Mozart,  Beethoven. 
Mendelssohn  was  a  feminine  variation  of  Bach, 
and  after  Schumann  followed  Brahms  — 
Brahms,  who  threatens  to  rival  his  great  ex 
emplar.  Yet  I  can  recall  the  incredulous  smiles 
when,  twenty-five  years  ago,  I  called  the  Brahms 
compositions  "The  Music  of  the  Future." 

The  Wagner-Liszt  tradition  of  music-drama 
and  the  symphonic  poem  have  been  continued 
with  personal  modifications  by  Richard  Strauss. 
Max  Reger  pinned  his  faith  to  Brahms  and  ab 
solute  music,  though  not  without  an  individual 
variation.  In  considering  his  Sinfonietta,  the 
Serenade,  the  Hiller  Variations,  the  Prologue 
205 


VARIATIONS 

to  a  Tragedy,  the  Lustspiel  overture,  the  two 
concertos  respectively  for  pianoforte  and  violin, 
we  are  struck  not  so  much  by  the  masterly 
handling  of  old  forms  as  by  the  stark,  emo 
tional  content  of  these  compositions.  It  is  an 
error  to  dismiss  his  music  as  merely  academic. 
He  began  as  a  Brahmsianer,  but  he  did  not 
succeed,  as  did  his  master,  in  fusing  form  and 
theme.  There  is  a  Dionysian  strain  in  him  that 
too  often  is  in  jarring  discord  with  the  intellec 
tual  structure  of  his  work.  The  furor  teutonicus 
in  conflict  with  the  scholar.  Yet  at  one  period 
Reger  was  considered  the  rival  of  Strauss, 
though  that  day  has  long  passed.  Arnold 
Schoenberg  now  divides  the  throne.  And  there 
were  many  other  claimants  —  Rezinek,  d'Al- 
bert,  Ernest  Boehe,  Walter  Braunfels,  Max 
Schillings,  Hans  Pfitzner,  Klose,  Ehrenberg, 
Noren,  Franz  Schreker,  and  the  younger  choir 
whose  doings  are  analyzed  weekly  by  clever 
Cezar  Searchinger  in  the  pages  of  the  Musical 
Courier.  Their  name  is  legion.  They  enter 
the  lists  sounding  golden  trumpets  of  self-praise 
and  are  usually  forgotten  after  a  solitary  per 
formance  of  their  huge  machines,  whether  opera 
or  symphony.  Size  seems  to  be  the  prime 
requisite.  Write  a  music-drama  that  consumes 
three  nights  in  its  performance,  a  symphony 
that  takes  a  hundred  men,  with  a  chorus  of  a 
thousand,  to  play  and  sing.  Behold !  You  are 
a  modern  among  moderns.  But  your  name  is 
as  mud  the  following  year.  Exceptions  are 
206 


THE  MUSIC  OF  YESTERDAY? 

Mahler  and  Bruckner,  yet  I  have  my  suspicions 
that  when  the  zeal  of  William  Mengelberg  has 
abated,  then  the  Mahler  craze  will  go  the  way 
of  all  flesh,  despite  the  fact  that  he  has  com 
posed  some  thrilling  pages.  Otherwise,  his 
symphonic  structures  are  too  mastodonic  to 
endure;  like  those  of  Berlioz,  they  are  top- 
heavy  with  ennui,  and  many  chambers  are 
empty  of  significant  ideas  or  vital  emotions. 
Musical  intellectualism  at  its  extreme  Kam- 
chatska. 

Our  personal  preferences  incline  us  to  the 
new  French  music.  To  be  sure,  substance  is 
often  lacking,  but  you  are  not  oppressed  by 
the  abomination  of  desolation  which  lurks  in 
the  merely  huge,  by  what  Mr.  Finck  calls  Jum- 
boism  in  music.  The  formal  clarity,  the  charm 
ing  color  sense,  the  sprightly,  even  joyful,  spirit, 
combined  with  an  audacious  roving  among 
revolutionary  ideas,  all  endear  these  youngsters 
to  us.  Debussy  is  their  artistic  sire,  Ravel 
their  stepfather,  and  if  d'Indy  does  not  fall  into 
this  category,  being  a  descendant  of  Franck, 
he  is  none  the  less  admirable  as  a  musician. 
Stravinsky  outpoints  them  all  in  the  imprevu, 
as  does  the  incredible  ProkofiefT  —  a  man  to  be 
carefully  estimated,  one  who  thus  far  hasn't 
put  his  best  foot  foremost  in  America.  The 
Richard  Strauss  case  is  no  longer  a  moot  one. 
He  has  in  all  probability  given  his  best  work, 
and  superlative  work  it  is,  despite  its  slag,  scoriae, 
rubble,  and  refuse.  He  is  the  chief  of  a  school, 
207 


VARIATIONS 

a  position  from  which  he  can  never  be  dislodged, 
and  when  history  sifts  the  pretensions  of  all 
the  second  and  third  rate  men  of  his  generation, 
his  figure  will  be  found  standing  close  to  Wag 
ner's  and  Berlioz's  and  Liszt's.  An  epigone? 
Yes.  But  an  epigone  of  individual  genius. 

With  Arnold  Schoenberg  freedom  in  modu 
lation  is  not  only  permissible  but  an  iron  rule; 
he  is  obsessed  by  the  theory  of  overtones,  and 
his  music  is  not  only  planned  horizontally  and 
vertically  but  in  a  circular  fashion.  There  is 
in  his  philosophy  no  such  thing  as  consonance 
or  dissonance,  only  perfect  ear  training.  (We 
quote  from  his  Harmony;  a  Bible  for  Super 
men).  He  writes:  "Harmonic  fremde  Tone  gibt 
es  also  nicht" — and  a  sly  dig  at  old-timers  — 
"sondern  nur  dem  Harmonie-system  fremde." 
After  carefully  listening  to  his  "chaos"  a  cer 
tain  order  disengages  itself;  his  madness  is 
methodical.  For  one  thing,  he  abuses  the  in 
terval  of  the  fourth  and  he  enjoys  juggling  with 
the  chord  of  the  ninth.  Vagabond  harmonies 
in  which  remotest  keys  lovingly  hold  hands  do 
not  dissipate  the  sensation  of  a  central  tonality 
somewhere  —  the  cellar,  on  the  roof,  in  the  gut 
ter,  up  above  in  the  sky  so  high.  The  inner  ear 
tells  you  that  his  D  minor  quartet  is  really 
thought,  though  not  altogether  played,  in  that 
key.  As  for  form,  you  must  not  expect  it  from 
a  man  who  has  declared:  "I  decide  my  form 
during  composition  only  through  feeling,"  a 
procedure  which  in  other  composers'  works 
208 


THE  MUSIC  OF  YESTERDAY? 

might  be  called  improvisation.  Every  chord  is 
the  outcome  of  an  emotion,  the  emotion  aroused 
by  the  poem  or  idea  which  gives  birth  to  the 
composition.  Such  antique  things  as  the  cyclic 
form  or  community  of  themes  are  not  to  be 
found  in  Schoenberg's  bright  lexicon  of  anarchy. 
He  boils  down  the  classic  sonata  form  to  one 
movement  and  begins  developing  his  theme  as 
soon  as  it  is  announced.  We  should  be  grateful 
that  he  announces  it  at  all;  themeless  music 
is  the  rage  at  present. 

So,  as  it  may  be  seen,  the  new  dogmatism  is 
more  dogmatic  than  the  old.  The  absence  of 
rule  in  Schoenberg  is  an  inflexible,  cast-iron 
law  of  necessity  as  tyrannical  as  the  Socialism 
that  has  replaced  Czarism  with  a  more  oppres 
sive  autocracy,  the  rule  of  the  unwashed,  many- 
headed  monster.  Better  one  tyrant  than  a 
million.  There  is  no  music  of  yesterday  or  to 
morrow.  There  is  only  the  music  of  Now. 


209 


LISZT'S  ONLY  PIANO  SONATA 

THAT  two  young  American-born  pianists, 
John  Powell  and  Louis  Cornell,  should  have 
selected  recently  Liszt's  only  piano  sonata  for 
their  programmes,  and  during  the  same  week, 
is  sufficiently  significant  to  call  for  comment. 
It  is  a  sign  of  the  times.  Many  of  the  innova 
tions  in  modern  writing  for  the  instrument  may 
be  directly  traced  to  this  same  B  minor  sonatar, 
and  when  we  name  it  as  the  composer's  solitary 
excursion  into  the  classical  domain,  it  is  with 
full  consciousness  that  Liszt's  "fantasia  quasi- 
sonata,"  after  a  reading  of  Dante,  in  Annees  de 
Pelerinage,  is  hardly  to  be  described  as  a  sonata. 
What  is  a  sonata?  Liszt  answers  the  question 
in  his  highly  original  work.  He  rejects  the  old 
order  of  three  or  four  separate  movements,  sub 
stituting  a  more  complete  organism.  It  may 
not  be,  formally  speaking,  the  Haydn,  Mozart, 
or  early  Beethoven  sonata.  Liszt  employs  as  a 
spring-board  the  last  sonatas  of  Beethoven  to 
launch  him  into  novel  territory  (study  opus  no 
in  A  fiat  and  you  will  recognize  the  truth  of 
this  contention). 

Charles  Souilier  has  declared  that  the  sonata 
expired  with  the  eighteenth  century,  which  gave 
it  birth.  This  is  a  rather  risky  statement.  If 
true,  we  should  have  missed  such  beautiful  music 

210 


LISZT'S  ONLY  PIANO  SONATA 

in  the  form  —  Schumann,  Chopin,  Brahms, 
Liszt.  The  Hungarian's  astonishing  use  of  the 
leading-movement  and  its  metamorphosis,  one 
theme  of  the  slow  introduction,  as  Shedlock,  in 
his  book  on  The  Pianoforte  Sonata,  is  the  source 
whence  he  derives  the  principal  part  of  his  tone 
picture,  and,  adds  Mr.  Shedlock,  "everything 
depends  on  the  quality  and  latent  power  of  the 
fertilizing  germ."  But  on  the  first  page  of  the 
B  minor  sonata  may  be  found  Wotan's  chief 
theme,  the  scream  of  Kundry,  and  a  color  scheme 
which  Wagner  later  incorporated  in  the  Ring 
and  Parsifal.  So  the  "fertilizing  germ"  is  not 
missing.  As  for  the  form,  that  is  easily  dis 
cernible.  Liszt  has  spun  a  complex  web,  his 
sonata  is  an  arabesque,  and  a  logical  one,  for 
nothing  is  more  inexorably  logical  than  a  seem 
ingly  loose  rhapsody.  The  chief  fault  of  this 
composition  is  not  its  form  or  lack  of  melodic 
invention,  but  its  length  —  it  demands  at  least 
thirty-five  minutes  to  play  —  caused  by  repeti 
tions,  though  in  different  keys,  thus  defeating 
the  very  purpose  for  which  it  was  composed, 
i.  e.,  suppression  of  unnecessary  episodes  and 
breaks  in  the  continuity.  The  same  criticism 
holds  good  for  the  Symphonic  Poems. 

Liszt's  influence  was  not  only  profound  upon 
his  contemporaries  —  witness  Wagner  —  but  on 
the  latter-day  school,  headed  by  Richard  Strauss, 
whose  tone  poems  are  inconceivable  without 
Liszt's  discoveries.  He  also  inspired  the  Rus 
sians,  and  his  impressionism  is  the  base  of 
211 


VARIATIONS 

Debussy  and  Ravel's  piano  music.  Rimsky- 
Korsakoff  we  long  ago  christened  the  Russian 
Berlioz,  yet  he  owes  Liszt  more;  from  Berlioz 
he  learned  how  to  paint  orchestrally,  but  in  his 
manner  of  composition  he  leans  heavily  on  the 
Hungarian.  Sadko  comes  from  Liszt's  sym 
phonic  poem,  Ce  qu'on  entend  sur  la  mon- 
tagne,  while  Antar  and  Scheherazade  come  from 
Harold  and  the  Faust  symphony.  As  a  French 
critic  has  written:  "The  brand  of  Liszt  remains 
ineffaceable"  on  those  charming  works  of 
Rimsky-Korsakoff.  Like  Moses,  Liszt  saw  the 
Promised  Land,  but  was  destined  never  to  enter 
it.  He  suffered  the  fate  of  intermediate  types. 
He  was  recognized  too  late.  Dr.  Frederick 
Niecks,  the  biographer  of  Chopin,  has  wisely 
said:  "Be,  however,  the  ultimate  fate  of  his 
works  what  it  may,  there  will  always  remain  to 
Liszt  the  fame  of  a  daring  striver,  a  fruitful 
originator,  and  a  wide-ranging  quickener." 

The  eminently  pianistic  quality  of  Liszt's 
original  music  commends  it  to  every  pianist. 
Joseffy  told  the  present  writer  that  the  B  minor 
sonata  was  one  of  those  compositions  that  plays 
itself,  it  "lies"  so  beautifully  for  the  hand.  No 
work  of  Liszt,  with  the  possible  exception  of  his 
etudes,  is  as  interesting.  Agreeing  with  those 
critics  who  declare  that  they  find  few  traces  of 
the  sonata  form  in  the  structure,  and  also  with 
those  who  assert  the  work  to  be  an  organic  am 
plification  of  the  old  obsolete  form,  and  that 
Liszt  has  taken  Beethoven's  last  sonata  period 
212 


LISZT'S  ONLY  PIANO  SONATA 

as  a  starting-point  for  his  plunge  into  futurity  — 
agreeing  with  these  warring  factions,  we  find 
fascinating  music  in  this  sonata.  What  a  dra 
matic  work  it  is !  It  stirs  the  blood.  It  is  in 
tense.  It  is  complex.  The  opening  bars  are 
truly  Lisztian.  The  gloom,  the  harmonic  haze 
from  which  emerges  that  bold  theme  in  octaves 
(Wotan's  theme),  the  leap  from  C  to  the  A 
sharp  below  —  how  Liszt  has  stamped  this  and 
the  succeeding  intervals  as  his  own!  Power 
there  is,  sardonic  power,  like  the  first  phrase  of 
the  E  flat  piano  concerto,  so  cynically  mocking. 
How  incisively  the  composer  traps  your  con 
sciousness  in  the  theme  of  the  sonata,  with  its 
four  knocking  D's!  What  follows  might  be  a 
drama  enacted  in  the  netherworld.  Is  there  a 
composer  who  paints  the  infernal,  the  macabre, 
with  more  suggestive  realism  than  Liszt?  Ber 
lioz  and  Saint-Saens  and  Raff  come  to  the  mind 
as  masters  of  the  grisly  and  supernatural.  But 
the  thin,  sharp  flames  of  hell  hover  about  the 
brass,  wood- wind,  and  shrieking  strings  in  the 
Liszt  orchestra. 

The  chorale,  usually  the  meat  of  the  Lisztian 
composition,  now  appears  and  in  dogmatic 
affirmation  proclaims  the  religious  belief  of  the 
composer;  our  convictions  are  swept  along  until 
after  that  outburst  in  C  major,  when  follows  the 
insincerity  of  it  all  in  the  harmonic  sequences. 
Here,  surely,  it  is  not  a  whole-hearted  belief, 
only  theatric  attudinizing;  after  the  faint  re 
turn  of  the  first  motive  is  heard  the  sigh  of  sen- 

213 


VARIATIONS 

timent,  of  passion,  of  abandonment,  which  en 
genders  the  suspicion  that  when  Liszt  was  not 
kneeling  in  prayer  he  was  prostrate  before 
woman.  He  blends  piety  and  passion  in  the 
most  mystically  amorous  fashion;  with  the  can- 
tando  expressivo  in  D  begins  some  lovely  music, 
secular  in  spirit,  mayhap  intended  by  its  creator 
for  reredos  and  pyx. 

But  the  rustle  of  silken  attire  is  behind  every 
bar;  sensuous  imagery,  a  delicate  perfume  of 
femininity  lurks  in  each  trill  and  cadence.  Ah ! 
naughty  Abbe,  have  a  care !  After  all  thy  ton 
sures  and  chorales,  thy  credos  and  sackcloth, 
wilt  thou  admit  the  Evil  One  in  the  guise  of  a 
melody,  in  whose  chromatic  intervals  lie  dimpled 
cheek  and  sunny  tresses !  Wilt  thou  permit  her 
to  make  away  with  thy  spiritual  resolutions? 
Vade  retro  me  Sathanas!  And  behold  it  is 
accomplished.  The  bold  theme,  so  triumphantly 
proclaimed  at  the  outset,  is  now  solemnly 
sounded  with  choric  pomp  and  power.  Then 
begins  the  hue  and  cry  of  diminished  sevenths, 
and  this  tonal  panorama  with  its  swirl  of  in 
toxicating  colons  kaleidoscopically  moves  on 
ward.  Again  the  devil  tempts  our  musical  St. 
Antony,  this  time  in  octaves  and  in  the  key  of 
A  major.  He  momentarily  succumbs,  but  that 
good  old  family  chorale  is  repeated,  and  even 
if  its  orthodoxy  is  faulty  in  spots  it  serves  its 
purpose;  the  Satan  is  routed  and  early  piety 
breaks  forth  in  an  alarming  fugato,  which,  like 
the  domestic  ailment  known  as  a  bad  conscience, 
214 


LISZT'S  ONLY  PIANO  SONATA 

is  happily  short-winded.  Another  flank  move 
ment  of  the  Eternal  Feminine,  this  time  in  the 
seductive  key  of  B,  made  mock  of  by  this  mu 
sical  Samson,  who  in  stretta  quasi  presto  views 
his  weakness  with  contrapuntal  glee.  He  shakes 
it  from  him,  and  in  the  bass  triplets  frames  it 
as  a  picture  to  weep  or  rage  over. 

All  this  finally  leads  to  prestissimo  finale  of 
startling  splendor.  In  the  literature  of  the  piano 
there  is  nothing  more  exciting.  It  is  brilliantly 
captivating,  and  Liszt  the  Magnificent  is  painted 
on  every  bar.  What  gorgeous  swing  and  how 
the  very  bases  of  the  musical  anvil  tremble 
under  the  sledge-hammer  blows  of  this  tonal 
Attila.  Then  follow  a  few  bars  of  the  Beetho 
ven-andante,  a  moving  return  to  the  earlier 
themes,  and  softly  the  first  lento  descends  to 
the  subterranean  abode,  whence  it  emerges,  a 
Magyar  Wotan,  majestically  vanishing  not  in 
the  mists  of  Valhalla  but  in  the  bowels  of 
Gehenna;  then  a  genuine  Lisztian  chord-sequence 
followed  by  a  profound  stillness  in  the  major. 
The  B  minor  sonata  displays  Liszt's  power, 
Liszt's  weakness.  It  is  rhapsodic,  it  is  too  long 
—  infernal,  not  a  "heavenly  length"  -it  is 
noble,  drastic,  cerebral,  and  it  is  blazing  with 
exotic  hues.  It  is  also  cynical  and  insincere. 
Liszt,  more  than  other  composers,  Meyerbeer 
and  Berlioz  excepted,  excelled  in  depicting  a 
sneering,  cynical  sensuality.  Also  insincerity. 
And  when  you  come  to  think  it  over,  it  takes 
genius  to  suggest  in  tones  the  insincere.  This 

215 


VARIATIONS 

feat  Liszt  achieved.  In  his  symphony  to  Faust 
he  succeeds  better  with  the  Mephisto  picture 
than  in  his  characterization  of  Marguerite.  But 
to  deny  the  B  minor  sonata  a  commanding  posi 
tion  in  the  Pantheon  of  piano  music  would  be 
folly.  And  interpreted  by  an  artist  saturated 
in  the  Liszt  tradition,  such  as  Arthur  Friedheim 
—  who  has  intellectual  power  and  never  resorts 
to  mere  sentimentalism  —  the  work  almost  com 
passes  the  sublime. 

Away  from  the  glitter  of  the  concert-room 
this  extraordinary  Hungarian,  inspired  after  the 
loftiest  in  art,  yet  in  the  atmosphere  of  aristo 
cratic  salons,  or  of  the  papal  court,  Liszt  was 
not  altogether  admirable.  We  have  heard  cer 
tain  cries  calling  heaven  to  witness  that  he 
was  anointed  of  the  Lord  (which  he  was  not); 
also  that  if  he  had  not  cut  and  run  to  sanctuary 
to  escape  the  petticoats  —  one  was  his  egregious 
Polish  Princess  —  we  might  never  have  heard 
of  Liszt  the  Abbe.  This  theory  is  not  far  from 
the  truth.  Among  the  various  penalties  under 
gone  by  genius  is  its  pursuit  by  gibes  and  glos 
saries.  Like  Ibsen  and  Maeterlinck,  the  com 
poser  Liszt  has  had  many  things  read  into  his 
music  which  do  not  belong  there.  He  set  great 
store  by  his  sacred  compositions,  his  masses  and 
his  psalms,  and  he  was  bitterly  disappointed 
because  Rome  did  not  espouse  his  reforms  in 
churchly  music,  notwithstanding  his  close  friend 
ship  with  Pope  Pius  IX.  But  there  is  a  vein 
of  insincerity  running  throughout  this  music, 
216 


LISZT'S  ONLY  PIANO  SONATA 

despite  its  ecclesiastic  pomp  and  operatic  color 
ing.  Perhaps  the  best  estimate  of  Franz  Liszt 
is  the  purely  human  one.  He  was  a  virile  mu 
sical  genius,  and  was  compact  of  the  usual 
pleasing  and  unpleasing  faults  and  virtues  as 
is  any  great  man  not  born  of  a  book. 


217 


DREAMING  OF  LISZT 

PHILIP  HALE  once  wrote  that  they  buried 
Richard  Wagner  in  the  back  yard  like  a  cat; 
which  is  irreverent  yet  a  bald  statement  of  the 
fact.  Liszt  is  also  buried  at  Baireuth,  in  a  for 
lorn  pagoda  designed  by  his  grandson,  Siegfried 
Wagner,  who,  at  the  time  of  his  grandfather's 
death,  was  a  student  of  architecture.  After  a 
pilgrimage  to  this  tomb  in  the  cemetery  in  the 
Erlangerstrasse,  for  I  count  myself  among  the 
Lisztianer,  and  also  after  hearing  several  operas 
of  Siegfried  I  reached  the  conclusion  that,  not 
withstanding  critical  opinion  to  the  contrary, 
the  young  man  wisely  abandoned  his  archi 
tectural  dreams.  But  it  is  another  kind  of 
dream  that  I  would  describe  this  Sunday  morn 
ing.  When  a  young  chap,  I  was  crazy  to  see, 
to  hear,  Liszt,  and  while  I  think  that  the  old 
man  with  long  white  hair  and  warts  on  his  face 
was  the  real  Liszt  —  I  met  him  on  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli  in  1878  —  still  the  possibility  of  a  closer 
view  haunted  my  sleeping  and  waking  hours, 
and,  finally  armed  with  letters  of  introduction 
from  a  well-known  French  pianist,  a  pupil  of 
the  musical  Merlin,  and  a  Paris  music  publisher, 
I  found  myself  one  evening  at  the  Gare  de  1'Est, 
en  route  for  Strasburg,  thence  to  Stuttgart, 
and  Weimar.  In  those  times,  forty  years  ago, 
we  travelled  slowly. 

218 


DREAMING  OF  LISZT 

A  lovely  morning  in  May  saw  me  walking 
through  a  sun-smitten  lane  on  the  road  to  the 
garden-house  where  his  Serene  Highness  was 
living.  I  had  sent  my  introductions  to  the 
royal  household  the  previous  evening.  I  had 
been  summoned.  The  hedges  were  white  wi»rh 
spring  blossoms,  the  air  redolent  of  bockbier. 
Ah !  thronging  memories  of  youth.  Suddenly 
a  man  on  horseback,  his  face  red  with  excite 
ment,  his  beast  covered  with  lather,  dashed  by, 
shouting,  "Make  way  for  the  Master.  He 
comes.  He  comes ! "  Presently  a  venerable 
being  with  a  purple  nose  —  a  Cyrano  de  Cognac 
nose  —  appeared,  and  walking.  His  hair 
streamed  in  the  wind.  He  wore  a  monkish 
habit,  and  on  his  head  was  a  huge  shovel-shaped 
hat  of  the  pattern  affected  by  Don  Basilio  in 
The  Barber  of  Seville.  "It  must  be  Liszt  or 
the  Devil,"  I  cried,  and  the  only  Liszt  smiled, 
his  warts  growing  more  purple,  his  expression 
most  benignant.  He  waved  to  me  a  friendly 
hand,  that  formidable  hand,  which,  like  a  steam- 
hammer,  could  crush  steel  or  crack  the  shell  of 
an  egg,  so  sensitive  was  it.  "Both  Liszt  and 
the  Devil,"  he  grunted,  and  then  I  knew  my 
man.  I  kissed  his  hand,  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  for  I  was  addressing  an  ecclesiastic,  an 
Abbe,  though  one  without  a  tonsure,  and  created 
a  deacon  by  Pope  Pius  IX,  called  Pio  Nono  in 
Italy,  but  in  Rome  affectionately  nicknamed 
"  Pianino "  because  of  his  love  of  piano  music, 
Liszt's  in  particular. 

219 


VARIATIONS 

He  invited  me  to  refreshments  at  the  Czerny 
Cafe,  but  as  it  was  crowded  we  went  across  the 
street  to  the  garden  of  the  Elephant  Hotel, 
there  to  be  surrounded  by  a  throng  of  little 
Liszts,  pupils,  male  and  female,  who  mimicked 
the  old,  old  gentleman  in  an  absurd  manner. 
They  wore  their  hair  on  their  shoulders,  they 
sprinkled  this  hair  with  flour,  they  even  went 
so  far  as  to  paint  purplish  excrescences  on  their 
chins  and  brows.  They  donned  semi-sacerdotal 
robes,  they  held  their  hands  in  the  peculiar 
style  of  the  Master;  they,  too,  sported  shovel- 
shaped  hats,  and  from  time  to  time  they  in 
dulged  in  patibulary  gestures.  But,  good  Lord, 
how  they  could  down  the  beer ! 

Enfin,  after  some  diplomatic  skirmishing  I 
was  invited  to  the  afternoon  musicale  and  went 
with  the  gang  to  the  pretty  little  home  of  Liszt 
in  the  ducal  park.  Liszt  was  amiable.  He 
knew  that  I  was  nervous,  so  he  asked  a  few 
promising  young  beginners,  such  as  Arthur 
Friedheim,  Alfred  Reisenauer,  Moriz  Rosen- 
thai,  Emil  Sauer,  Richard  Burmeister,  to  open 
the  ball.  After  I  heard  them  I  wished  myself 
in  Buxtehude.  I  had  proclaimed  myself  as  an 
ardent  upholder  of  the  Thalberg  school,  which 
champions  a  singing  touch  and  pearly  scales. 
I  had  studied  all  the  Thalberg  fantasies  on 
operatic  airs  with  Charles  H.  Jarvis  of  Phila 
delphia,  who  could  read  prima  vista  any  music 
composed  by  man,  god,  or  devil.  You  will 
estimate  my  musical  and  intellectual  equip- 
220 


DREAMING  OF  LISZT 

ment  of  those  days  when  I  tell  you  that  my 
battle-horse  was  the  Prayer  from  Moses  in 
Egypt,  arranged  by  Thalberg,  and  my  favorite 
reading  the  prose  of  Chateaubriand;  in  few 
words,  lush,  luxuriant,  and  overblown  romanti 
cism.  The  step  to  Ouida's  novels  and  the  Hen- 
selt  etudes  was  not  far.  All  that  I  detest  now  in 
music  and  literature  was  then  my  passion.  Like 
Ephraim  I  was  sealed  to  my  idols,  and  the  chief- 
est  was  Thalberg,  natural  son  of  Prince  Lichten- 
stein,  a  handsome  piano  virtuoso  with  aristo 
cratic  side-whiskers,  a  smooth  pianistic  style, 
and  a  euphonious  touch. 

Liszt  called  to  me.  "Tiens !  let  us  hear  some 
music  by  an  admirer  of  my  old  friend  Sigismund 
Thalberg."  I  did  not  miss  the  veiled  irony  of 
the  speech,  the  slight  underlining  of  "  friend," 
for  I  had  read  of  the  historical  Liszt-Thalberg 
duel  in  Paris  during  the  third  decade  of  the 
last  century.  But  memories  soon  annulled  my 
agony.  What  a  via  dolorosa  I  traversed  from 
my  chair  to  the  piano  —  by  the  way,  a  Stein- 
way  concert-grand.  I  shall  not  forget  to  my 
dying  hour  that  chamber  wherein  I  stood  the 
most  fateful  afternoon  of  my  life.  Liszt,  with 
his  powerful  profile  of  an  Indian  chieftain, 
lounged  in  the  window  embrasure,  the  light 
streaking  his  hair,  silhouetting  his  brow,  nose, 
and  projecting  chin.  He  was  the  illuminated 
focus  of  a  picture  that  is  burnt  into  my  memory 
cells.  The  pupils  were  wraiths  floating  in  a 
misty  dream,  with  malicious  points  of  light  for 
221 


VARIATIONS 

eyes.  I,  too,  felt  like  a  disembodied  being  in 
this  spectral  atmosphere  of  which  Liszt  was  the 
living  reality. 

Urged  by  a  hypnotic  will  I  went  to  the  piano, 
sat  before  it,  and  in  my  nervous  misery  lifted 
the  fall-board  and  paused  to  decipher  the  name 
of  its  maker;  that's  how  I  discovered  Steinway. 
My  act  did  not  pass  unperceived.  Whispering 
ensued,  followed  chuckling,  and  some  one  said: 
"He  must  have  begun  as  a  piano  salesman." 
It  was  the  voice  of  the  witty  Rosenthal,  and  it 
utterly  disconcerted  me.  Facing  me  on  the 
wall  was  Ary  SchefTer's  portrait  of  Chopin,  and 
doubtless  prompted  by  the  subject,  my  fingers 
groped  among  the  keys  and  I  began,  without 
rhyme  or  reason,  the  weaving  prelude  in  D  of 
the  immortal  Pole.  My  insides  were  shaking 
like  a  bowl  of  disturbed  jelly,  though  outwardly 
I  was  as  calm  as  growing  grass.  Oddly  enough 
my  hands  did  not  falter,  the  music  seemed  to 
ooze  from  my  wrists.  I  had  not  studied  in  vain 
Thalberg's  Art  of  Singing  on  the  Pianoforte. 
I  finished.  Not  a  murmur  was  heard.  Then 
Liszt's  voice  cut  the  sultry  air:  "I  had  expected 
Thalberg's  tremolo  study,"  he  casually  remarked, 
avenging  himself  with  an  epigram  on  his  old 
rival  a  half  century  after  their  battles.  But 
Thalberg  didn't  hear  it.  I  did.  I  took  the  hint 
and  bowed  myself  out  of  the  royal  presence, 
permitted  by  the  boss  to  kiss  his  technique-laden 
fingers,  and  without  stopping  for  my  hat  and 
walking-stick  in  the  ante-chamber  I  went  away. 
222 


DREAMING  OF  LISZT 

Then  tempted  by  the  cool  of  the  woods  I  strayed 
across  to  Goethe's  Garden  House.  At  the  mo 
ment  I  preferred  poetry  to  music.  Neverthe 
less,  I  had  played  for  Liszt.  Rotten  playing, 
of  course,  yet  a  historical  fact.  But  when  I 
compiled  a  life  of  the  Grand  Old  Man  of  Hun 
gary  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  put  my  name  in 
that  long  list  of  reputed  pupils,  though  I  dare 
say  I  didn't  play  any  worse  than  some  of  them. 
Ask  Arthur  Friedheim. 

My  hat  and  stick  I  sent  for.  I  was  not  pre 
cisely  in  a  jubilant  mood,  though  I  joined  the 
Liszt  lobby  that  night  at  the  Hotel  "Zum  Ele- 
fanten."  It  was  a  goodly  crowd,  the  majority 
of  whom  achieved  musical  fame  later.  In  the 
Weimar  of  those  days  Liszt  walked  and  talked, 
smoked  big  black  cigars,  drank  his  share  of 
brandy,  played,  composed,  and  prayed  —  he 
seldom  missed  early  mass.  Despite  his  Hun 
garian  origin,  his  early  French  training,  there 
emerged  through  the  palimpsest  of  his  brilliant 
and  complex  personality  the  characteristics  of 
his  mother,  an  Austrian  born.  He  loved  Ger 
man  music,  German  ways.  He  liked  to  speak 
that  tongue  in  preference  to  French.  Of  the 
Magyar  language  he  knew  little.  But  his  music 
is  Hungarian  enough;  Hungarian  in  the  sense 
that  Tchaikovsky's  is  Russian  —  i.  e.,  cosmo 
politan.  However,  there's  a  lot  of  nonsense 
written  about  that  fetish  of  a  certain  critical 
school,  the  fetish  of  nationalism  in  music.  Liszt 
would  have  been  invincibly  Liszt  even  if  he 
223 


VARIATIONS 

had  been  born  in  Boston.  And  that  tropically 
passionate  town  does  not  in  the  least  resemble 
Budapest. 

At  the  Liszt  museum  his  old  housekeeper 
Paulina  Apel  —  I  must  ask  Albert  Morris  Bag- 
by  if  she  still  lives  —  showed  me  its  numerous 
memorials.  What  a  collection  of  trophies, 
jewels,  manuscripts,  orders,  pictures,  letters, 
and  testimonials  from  all  over  the  globe.  I 
read  a  letter  from  Charles  Baudelaire  to  Liszt, 
which  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  volume  dedicated 
to  his  correspondence.  Gifts  from  royalty 
abound.  In  glass  cases  are  the  scores  of  Chris- 
tus,  the  Faust  Symphony,  Orpheus,  Hungaria, 
the  Berg  Symphony,  Totentanz,  and  Fest- 
klaenge.  Besides  the  Steinway  in  the  music- 
room  there  was  an  old  instrument  dating  back 
to  the  forties;  for  the  little  piano  upon  which 
he  studied  as  a  child  you  must  go  to  the  Buda 
pest  museum.  At  Weimar  may  be  seen  marble 
hands  of  Liszt's,  Beethoven's,  and  Chopin's; 
also  the  long,  nervous,  spider-like  fingers  of 
Liszt  clasping  the  slender  hand  of  the  Princess 
Sayn-Wittgenstein.  Like  Chopin,  Liszt  at 
tracted  princesses  and  other  exalted  personages 
in  petticoats  as  does  sugar  buzzing  flies. 

And  then  I  woke  up.  I  had  been  dreaming 
in  my  Parisian  attic  in  1878.  When  I  went 
for  the  first  time  to  Weimar  in  1896  Liszt  had 
been  dead  ten  years. 


224 


A  BRAHMA  OF  THE  KEYBOARD 

IN  a  half-forgotten  study  of  Flaubert's  mas 
terpiece,  L'Education  Sentimentale,  which  he 
rightly  calls  A  Tragic  Novel,  George  Moore 
compares  the  great  Frenchman  to  Brahma 
"  creating  the  passing  spectacle  of  life  to  relieve 
his  eternal  ennui.'1  .  .  .  Now,  Leopold  Godow- 
sky  is  not  Brahma,  and  he  has  never  suffered 
from  ennui,  thanks  to  his  tremendous  capacity 
for  work;  yet  I  can't  help  picturing  him  as  a 
sort  of  impassive  Asiatic  deity  seated  before 
the  keyboard  of  his  instrument  calmly  surveying 
the  eternal  spectacle  of  music  and  its  many 
masques.  All  schools,  all  styles,  he  knows,  but 
upon  this  vast  knowledge  he  has  no  desire  to 
make  any  personal  comment.  Passionless,  pas 
sionate,  objective  and  subjective,  his  crystal- 
clear  comprehension  of  the  musical  universe 
has  made  him  apparently  assume  the  attitude 
of  an  omniscient  spectator,  though  he  is  neither 
one  nor  the  other.  Louis  Ehlert  asked  Karl 
Tausig  —  probably  the  greatest  of  all  piano  vir 
tuosi  —  why  he  did  not  offer  up  a  small  sacrifice 
to  the  human  needs  of  the  masses.  The  Pole 
replied:  "I  am  not  sentimental;  neither  my  life 
nor  my  education  intended  me  to  be  so." 
Ehlert  persisted.  "How  would  it  be  if  you  were 
to  give  us  an  historical  representation  of  the 
225 


VARIATIONS 

sentimental?"  he  suggested.  Tausig  shook  his 
head  and  shrewdly  smiled.  He  never  mafic- 
concessions  to  public  taste,  and  he  was  called 
inhuman,  cold,  objective.  His  master,  Liszt, 
was  the  reverse,  overflowing  with  the  milk  of 
human  music,  spontaneous  and  prodigal  in  his 
play.  Tausig  the  obverse  of  the  medal;  yet  I 
believe  that  Liszt  and  Tausig  were  the  piano 
Dioscuri,  and  not  Liszt  and  Chopin.  Chopin 
as  a  pianist  has  a  niche  all  his  own. 

In  an  article  several  years  ago  and  in  the 
magazine  section  of  The  Times,  I  wrote  that 
Leopold  Godowsky  is  a  pianist  for  pianists,  as 
Shelley  is  a  poet  for  poets.  But  everybody 
reads  Shelley  nowadays,  and  no  doubt  compares 
him  unfavorably  with  the  ear-splitting  verse 
of  the  cacophonous  young  poets  of  the  hour. 
Leopold  Liebling  took  exception  to  my  ascrip 
tion,  and  I  fancy  he  is  right;  every  musical  per 
son  listens  to  the  alluring  playing  of  Godowsky 
quite  impervious  to  the  fact  that  there  are  as 
pects  of  his  art  which  will  always  escape  them. 
In  his  playing  he  is  transcendental.  This  doesn't 
mean  that  he  is  frostily  objective;  he  is  human, 
emotional,  and  has  at  his  finger  ends  all  styles. 
It  is  the  fine  equilibrium  of  intellect  and  emo 
tion  that  compels  our  admiration.  No  one  plays 
Chopin  like  Godowsky,  no,  not  even  that  tricky 
kobold,  Vladimir  de  Pachmann.  Paderewski 
is  more  emotional,  Josef  Hofmann  extorts  a 
richer,  a  more  sonorous  tone  from  the  wires; 
nevertheless,  Godowsky  is  a  Chopinist  in  a  class 
226 


A   BRAHMA   OF   THE   KEYBOARD 

apart.  He  doesn't  drip  honey  in  the  nocturnes 
as  does  Irr.ace  Jar..  Prerr.ie:  of  Poland;  he  car/: 
thunder  the  polonaises  like  his  friend  Jozio  from 
Cracow;  but  these  qualities  he  gives  us  in  his 
own  scale  of  tonal  values.  He  is  a  powerful 
man  with  muscles  that  are  both  velvet  and  steeL 
"When  he  wishes  he,  too,  can  sound  the  orches 
tral  note;  but,  then,  he  seldom  wishes  this.  His 
feeling  for  the  limitations  of  the  piano  recalls 
the  words  of  Rafael  Joseffy:  "I'm  not  a  brass 
band";  Joseffy,  who,  in  his  abhorrence  of  a 
smeary  touch  produced  his  legato  with  the  aid 
of  the  pedals,  and  what  an  aristocratic  floating 
touch  was  his!  What  poetry!  What  atmos 
phere! 

Setting  aside  his  Chopin  interpretations, 
which  we  take  for  granted,  as  he  is  Slavic,  have 
you  heard  Godowsky  play  Mozart,  or  the  neg 
lected  Haydn;  or  Schubert,  Schumann?  Of  his 
Bach,  Beethoven,  and  Brahms  I  shall  not  write. 
I  can  only  repeat  —  all  schools  are  at  his  beck, 
and  if  they  are  "perfect  pictures,  perfectly 
framed  and  hung,"  as  Josefly  said  of  his  beloved 
master,  Tausig,  there  is  also  the  personal  equa 
tion,  for  me,  full  of  magic.  Sensationalism,  the 
pianistic  fracas,  posing  for  the  gallery,  all  the 
bag  of  cheap  tricks  this  great  pianist  eschews. 
He  is  master  of  the  art  of  playing  the  piano 
beautifully.  His  exquisitely  plastic  phrasing, 
artistic  massing  of  colors,  above  all  the  nobility 
of  his  conception  —  little  wonder  I  call  him  a 
Brahma  of  the  keyboard,  far-fetched  as  the 
227 


VARIATIONS 

simile  may  sound.  To  Godowsky  all  other  pian 
ists  could  go  to  school,  if  for  nothing  else  but 
the  purity  of  his  style,  his  kaleidoscopic  tint- 
ings,  his  polyphony.  And  it  must  be  admitted 
that  pianists  I  have  spoken  to  about  him  admit 
his  power.  He  does  not  boast  the  grand  man 
ner  of  Josef  Hofmann,  yet  Hofmann  is  reported 
to  have  told  his  manager  that  he  enjoyed  listen 
ing  in  a  room  to  Godowsky  more  than  playing 
to  crowded  and  enthusiastic  multitudes  at  his 
own  concerts.  Truly  a  fraternal  and  noble 
sentiment !  If  it  comes  to  sheer  sensationalism, 
then  Godowsky  easily  leads  them  all,  Rosen  thai 
not  excepted.  I  refer  you  to  his  paraphrases  of 
Chopin,  Weber,  and  Johann  Strauss,  and  the 
supreme  ease  with  which  he  conquers  them. 
Brahma,  indeed.  Although  as  he  plays  he  looks 
more  like  Buddha  under  his  Bodh  tree  conjuring 
beautiful  sounds  from  sky  and  air  and  the  mur 
muring  of  crystalline  waters. 

It  must  be  nearly  twenty  years  ago,  anyhow 
eighteen,  that  I  entertained  Vladimir  de  Pach- 
mann  in  my  Dream  Barn  on  Madison  Avenue 
at  Seventy-sixth  Street.  The  tenth  floor,  a 
room  as  big  and  as  lofty  as  a  cathedral.  Alas ! 
where  are  such  old-fashioned  apartments  to-day  ? 
After  eating  a  duck,  a  kotchka,  cooked  Polish 
fashion,  and  borsch,  beet  soup,  with  numerous 
Slavic  side-dishes,  preceded  by  the  inevitable 
zakuska — those  appetite-slaying  bonnes  bouches 
—  De  Pachmann  fiercely  demanded  cognac.  I 
was  embarrassed.  Not  drinking  spirits,  I  had 
228 


A  BRAHMA  OF  THE  KEYBOARD 

inconsiderately  forgotten  the  taste  of  others. 
De  Pachmann,  who  is  a  child  at  heart,  too  often 
a  naughty  child,  cried  to  heaven  that  I  was  a 
hell  of  a  host !  He  said  this  in  Russian,  then  in 
French,  Italian,  German,  Polish,  Spanish,  Eng 
lish,  and  wound  up  with  a  hearty  Hebrew 
"Raca!"  which  may  mean  hatred,  or  revenge, 
certainly  something  not  endearing.  But  the 
worst  was  to  come.  There  stood  my  big  Stein- 
way  concert  grand  piano,  and  he  circled  about 
the  instrument  as  if  it  were  a  dangerous  mon 
ster.  Finally  he  sniffed  and  snapped:  "My  con 
tract  does  not  permit  me  to  play  a  Steinway." 
I  hadn't  thought  of  asking  him,  fearing  Chopin's 
classic  retort  after  a  dinner  party  at  Paris:  "Ma 
dame,  j'ai  mange  si  peu!"  Finally  I  saw  the 
hole  in  the  millstone  and  excused  myself.  When 
I  returned  with  a  bottle  of  abominable  cognac 
the  little  man's  malicious  smile  changed  to  a  look 
of  ecstasy,  and  he  was  not  a  drinking  man  ever; 
but  he  was  accustomed  to  his  "petit  verre"  after 
dining,  and  was  ill-tempered  when  deprived  of 
it.  Such  is  human  nature,  something  that  Puri 
tans,  prohibitionists,  and  other  pernicious  busy- 
bodies  will  never  understand.  And  then  this 
wizard  lifted  the  fallboard  of  my  piano  and,  quite 
forgetful  of  that  "contract,"  began  playing. 
And  how  he  did  play!  Ye  gods!  Bacchus, 
Apollo,  and  Venus  and  all  other  pleasant  celestial 
persons,  how  you  must  have  revelled  when  De 
Pachmann  played!  In  the  more  intimate  at 
mosphere  of  my  apartment  his  music  was  of  a 
229 


VARIATIONS 

gossamer  web,  iridescent,  aerial,  an  aeolian  harp 
doubled  by  a  diabolic  subtlety.  Albert  Ross 
Parsons,  one  of  the  few  living  pupils  of  Tausig, 
in  reply  to  my  query,  How  did  Joseffy  compare 
with  Tausig?  answered:  "Joseffy  was  like  the 
multicolored  mist  that  encircles  a  mighty  moun 
tain;  but  beautiful."  So  Pachmann's  weaving 
enchantments  seemed  in  comparison  to  Godow- 
sky's  profounder  playing. 

And  what  did  Vladimir,  hero  of  double-notes, 
play  ?  Nothing  but  Godowsky,  then  new  to  me. 
Liszt  had  been  his  god,  but  Godowsky  was  now 
his  living  deity.  He  had  studied,  mastered,  and 
memorized  all  those  transcendental  variations 
on  Chopin  studies,  the  most  significant  variations 
since  the  Brahms,  aPaganini  scaling  of  the  heights 
of  Parnassus;  and  I  heard  for  the  first  time  the 
paraphrase  of  Weber's  Invitation  to  the  Valse,  a 
much  more  viable  arrangement  than  Tausig's; 
also  thrice  as  difficult.  However,  technique,  as 
sheer  technique,  does  not  enter  into  the  musical 
zone  of  Godowsky.  He  has  restored  polyphony 
to  its  central  position,  thus  bettering  in  that  re 
spect  Chopin,  Schumann,  and  Liszt.  I  have 
called  attention  elsewhere  to  Godowsky's  solo 
sonata,  which  evokes  images  of  Chopin  and 
Brahms  and  Liszt  —  only  in  the  scherzo.  In 
stead  of  exhuming  such  an  "ungrateful,"  un- 
pianistic  composition  as  Tschaikovsky's  Sonata 
in  G,  pianists  of  caliber  might  more  profitably 
introduce  the  Godowsky  work.  He  is  too  mod 
est  or  else  too  indifferent  to  put  it  on  his  pro 
gramme.  It  "lies"  so  well  for  the  keyboard, 
230 


A  BRAHMA  OF  THE  KEYBOARD 

yet  there  is  no  denying  its  difficulties,  chiefly 
polyphonic;  the  patterns  are  intricate,  though 
free  from  the  clogging  effects  of  the  Brahms 
sonatas.  De  Pachmann  delighted  his  two  audi 
tors  from  10  P.  M  to  3  A.  M.  It  is  safe  to  wager 
that  the  old  Carrollton  never  heard  such  music- 
making  before  or  since.  When  he  left,  happy 
over  his  triumph  —  I  was  actually  flabbergasted 
by  the  new  music  —  he  whispered:  "Hein! 
What  you  think !  You  think  I  can  play  this 
wonderful  music?  You  are  mistaken.  Wait 
till  you  hear  Leopold  Godowsky  play.  We  are 
all  children,  all  woodchoppers,  compared  with 
him!"  Curiously  enough,  the  last  is  the  iden 
tical  phrase  uttered  by  Anton  Rubinstein  in  re 
gard  to  Franz  Liszt.  Perhaps  it  was  a  quotation, 
but  De  Pachmann  meant  it.  It  was  the  sin- 
cerest  sentiment  I  had  heard  from  his  often  in 
sincere  lips.  We  were  all  three  surprised  to  find 
a  score  of  people  camping  out  on  the  curved 
stairway  and  passages,  the  idealist,  a  colored 
lad  who  ran  the  elevator,  having  succumbed  to 
sleep.  This  impromptu  Godowsky  recital  by  a 
marvellous  pianist,  for  De  Pachmann  was  a 
marvel  in  his  time,  must  have  made  a  grand  hit 
with  my  neighbors.  It  did  with  me,  and  when 
Godowsky  returned  to  New  York  —  I  had  last 
heard  him  in  the  middle  nineties  of  the  previous 
century  —  I  lost  no  time  in  hearing  him  play 
in  his  inimitable  manner  those  same  works.  A 
pianist  who  can  win  the  heartiest  admiration  of 
such  contemporaries  as  De  Pachmann  and  Jo- 
seffy  and  Josef  Hofmann  —  I  could  adduce  many 
231 


VARIATIONS 

other  names  —  must  be  a  unique  artist.    And 
that  Godowsky  is. 

When  he  isn't  teaching  or  playing  with  or 
chestra  or  in  recitals  Mr.  Godowsky  spends  his 
leisure  in  pedagogic  work.  There  is  a  wide- 
spreading  education  scheme  which  has  St.  Louis 
as  headquarters,  the  name  of  which  I've  for- 
1  gotten,  though  the  name  doesn't  much  matter, 
as  musicians  the  country  over  know  it.  For  this 
Mr.  Godowsky  is  editing  the  classics  and  roman 
tics  of  piano  literature.  He  is  also  composing 
the  most  charming  music  imaginable  for  the 
earlier  and  middle  grades  of  students;  music  that 
has  genuine  musical  values,  with  technical. 
Imagination  and  instruction  blended.  Pegasus 
harnessed  to  the  humbler  draught  horse.  If  you 
think  of  Schumann's  various  albums  for  the 
young  you  may  surmise  the  spirit  of  the  Godow 
sky  curriculum.  I  have  been  reading  through 
his  Miniatures  for  four-hands  (Carl  Fischer,  New 
York),  three  suites,  twelve  numbers  in  all,  in 
which  the  treble  is  for  the  pupil  of  extreme  sim 
plicity  yet  demanding  attention  to  the  melodic 
line,  and  amply  developing  the  rhythmic  sense. 
With  their  fanciful  titles,  tiny  mood-pictures, 
( these  Miniatures  are  bound  to  attract  all  teach- 
>ers  of  the  instrument.  Leopold  Godowsky  is  a 
master  pedagogue,  as  well  as  a  master  of  masters 
among  virtuosi.  He  belongs  to  the  race  of  such 
giants  as  Paganini,  Liszt,  Tausig  —  and  he  is 
"  different." 


232 


CONTEMPORARY  BRAN 

YESTERDAY  was  housecleaning  in  my  office, 
which  I  need  hardly  tell  you  is  situated  under 
my  hat.  The  principal  debris  to  be  removed 
and  dumped  into  the  waste-paper  basket  were 
letters  addressed  to  this  department.  Their 
number  was  appalling,  the  accumulation  of 
weeks,  as  the  music  editor  has  little  time  for 
answering  letters.  A  dozen  concerts  a  day, 
opera  almost  every  night,  do  not  make  for  the 
life  tranquil.  Now,  letters,  anonymous  or 
signed,  are  always  interesting,  especially  those 
in  the  first  category.  Praise  and  blame  run 
neck  and  neck;  cinquante-cinquante,  in  classic 
parlance.  Occasionally  abusive  missives  arrive, 
breathing  fire  and  fury,  and  these  are  of  psy 
chologic  import.  You  ask  yourself  why?  And 
lose  yourself  in  an  interesting  labyrinth  of  specu 
lation.  The  small  boy  who  chalks  naughty 
words  or  figures  on  wall  spaces  during  the  spring 
of  the  year  testifies  to  the  rising  sap  of  the  bud 
ding  season;  it  is  an  outlet  for  his  nascent  emo 
tions.  Presumably  this  is  the  case  with  those 
whose  handwriting  reveals  their  uneasy  sex. 
But  why  do  they  select  the  present  incumbent 
of  this  chair  of  criticism  ?  William  James,  when 
he  dissected  Dr.  Nordau,  twenty-five  years  ago, 
pointed  out  as  a  major  symptom  of  the  too 

233 


VARIATIONS 

critical  Max  what  is  called  by  psychiatrists  co- 
prolalia,  or  a  tendency  to  indulge  in  vulgar, 
abusive  language.  When  certain  inhibitions  of 
polite  society  are  removed  the  patient  indulges 
in  vile  speech,  and  writes  nasty  and  usually 
anonymous  letters  for  reasons  only  known  to 
himself  or  herself.  Writers  of  anonymous  let 
ters  are  described  as  cowardly,  but  this  is  only 
half  the  truth;  they  are  also  sick-brained,  suffer 
ing  from  mild  hysteria,  and  as  soon  as  they  trans 
fer  to  paper  the  expression  of  their  petty  spite 
are  temporarily  relieved;  there  is  "a  load  off 
their  minds/7  as  they  put  it. 

This  doesn't  mean  that  all  anonymous  letters 
are  abusive;  some  of  them  are  pleasant  reading. 
A  blushing  maiden  records  her  admiration.  A 
"violinist"  tells  me  that  I  have  overpraised 
Raoul  Vidas,  although  I  was  not  at  the  concert 
in  question,  Sunday  being  my  day  of  respite 
from  the  boiler  shop;  now  and  again  pertinent 
criticism  is  received,  but,  whether  signed  or  un 
signed,  all  these  communications  only  prove  that 
their  recipient's  casual  writing  is  closely  read, 
and  that  is  a  minor  consolation.  Then  there  are 
the  letters  asking  for  advice,  and  these  contain 
,  harder  nuts  to  crack.  Why  warn  a  young  man 
or  woman  that  musical  criticism  as  a  profession 
is  a  delusion  and  a  snare  ?  Neither  one  will  be 
lieve  you.  Why  suggest  to  an  ambitious  young 
composer  that  any  other  avocation  will  bring 
him,  if  not  happiness,  then,  at  least,  bread  and 
butter?  But  the  stone  hankers  after  the  star, 

234 


CONTEMPORARY  BRAN 

and  who  shall  mock  its  aspiration  ?  How  often 
have  we  felt  like  crying  aloud:  "Hats  on,  gentle 
man,  this  is  not  a  genius!"  reversing  the  his 
toric  utterance  of  Robert  Schumann.  A  critic 
should  be  clairvoyant,  but  sometimes  he  is  not. 
And  little  wonder.  Paste  passes  for  diamonds, 
skim-milk  masquerades  as  cream.  But  it  is 
always  well  to  face  the  rising,  not  the  setting 
sun.  Write  only  for  young;  the  old  will  not 
heed  you,  being  weary  of  the  pother  of  life  and 
art.  To  the  young  belongs  the  future.  Hurrah 
for  Ornstein  and  Prokofieff,  or  the  ideals  they 
represent!  Progress  always  traverses  a  circle, 
it  is  more  imaginary  than  real,  but  we  must  have 
the  illusion  of  progress,  else  spiritually  decay. 
Without  vision  people  perish.  Nice  copybook 
axioms,  paste  them  in  your  bonnet. 

In  Emile  Hennequin's  La  Critique  Scien- 
tifique  —  introduced  to  English  readers  by  John 
Mackinnon  Robertson  in  his  New  Essays 
Towards  a  Critical  Method  —  the  brilliant 
Frenchman,  unhappily  dead  before  his  time, 
advanced  the  idea  that  every  critic  should,  in 
the  preface  of  his  book,  set  forth  not  only  his 
qualifications,  but  also  his  prejudices,  his  limi 
tations.  This  procedure  might  shed  a  dry  light 
on  what  follows,  although  it  would  seem  un 
necessary,  as  all  these  virtues  and  defects  are 
implicit  in  the  critics'  work.  However,  Mr.  Rob 
ertson  has  elaborated  the  theory  and  frankly 
exposes  himself.  I  am  minded  of  this  by  a 
signed  letter,  evidently  written  by  a  gentleman, 

235 


VARIATIONS 

which  came  to  this  department  shortly  after  a 
notice  had  appeared  criticising  the  Oratorio  So 
ciety.  The  critic,  it  seems,  must  have  been  in 
a  disgruntled  humor  when  he  declared  that  the 
oratorio  form  was  as  obsolete  as  the  mastodon, 
or  some  other  prehistoric  monster;  perhaps  he 
meant  hippopotamus.  The  writer  of  the  com 
munication  protests,  and  logically,  against  send 
ing  a  man  to  criticise  choral  singing  when  he  is 
not  in  sympathy  with  such.  Other  people,  nu 
merous  people,  find  in  oratorio  the  musical  staff 
of  life.  Why,  then,  trample  on  their  feelings? 
The  answer  is  an  unqualified  assent  to  the  argu 
ment.  As  I  signed  the  criticism  in  question, 
and  as  I  was  bored  to  death  at  the  time,  there 
is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  apologize  —  also 
put  on  paper  my  objections,  thus  following  the 
advice  of  the  distinguished  French  critic.  And 
I  fear  I  shall  make  out  a  poor  case  for  the  defense. 
In  the  first  place,  on  the  night  of  the  Oratorio 
concert,  our  oratorio  editor,  yielding  to  a  per 
fectly  human  impulse  —  about  the  fourth  time 
in  his  life  —  accompanied  the  sporting  editor  to 
a  marvellous  wrestling  match  between  El  Greco, 
the  Terrible  Greek  (his  real  name  is  said  to  be 
Theototocopulous),  and  Goya,  better  known  as 
the  Man-Strangler.  Which  one  first  went  to 
the  mat  on  that  tremendous  occasion  need  not 
concern  us  now;  suffice  to  say  that  I  was  butch 
ered  to  make  the  oratorio  editor's  holiday.  Why 
do  I  dislike  oratorio  ?  I  meekly  retort  —  I 
don't.  I  love  it,  and  my  correspondent  is  right 
236 


CONTEMPORARY  BRAN 

when  he  asserts  that  the  form  has  served  as  a 
vehicle  for  most  masterly  music.  Think  of 
Bach,  Handel,  Mendelssohn.  I  know  it.  I 
have  heard  and  loved  choral  singing  for  a  half 
century.  Masterpieces  ^  never  weary,  but,  as 
Arthur  Symons  says,  books  about  books  soon 
pass  away,  and  there  are  some  of  us  who  prefer 
to  read  than  "see"  Hamlet,  although  I  agree 
with  Brander  Matthews  that  the  only  test  of  a 
play  is  "the  fire  of  the  footlights."  In  a  word, 
public  performance  may  rob  the  masterpiece  of 
its  original  grandeur  —  and  we  must  predicate 
grandeur  for  the  B  minor  Mass,  for  the  Messiah, 
for  Elijah.  This  sounds  as  if  I  were  about  to 
lay  the  blame  on  the  particular  performance  of 
the  Oratorio  Society  —  a  cowardly  evasion  of 
my  duty.  On  the  contrary,  I  confess  that  with 
the  exception  of  the  inevitable  limitations  of 
amateur  singing  —  Signor  Setti  choruses  are  not 
plentiful  —  I  had  never  heard  the  Oratorio  So 
ciety  sing  with  such  refreshing  vigor  as  the  week 
before  last.  Remember,  too,  that  I  heard  the 
society  under  Leopold  Damrosch,  when  it  sang 
The  Damnation  of  Faust  at  the  Academy  of 
Music,  Philadelphia,  and  young  Walter  con 
ducted  a  chorus  in  the  wings. 

You  will  ask,  You  love  the  noble  music  in  this 
form,  why  write  deprecatingly  of  it?  Because 
it  is  my  unshakable  conviction  that  such  music 
does  not  belong  in  the  concert  room,  but  in  a 
church.  After  hearing  the  Passion  music  in 
Bach's  old  St.  Thomas's  Church,  or  the  Brahms 

237 


VARIATIONS 

Requiem  in  a  historical  church,  the  anomaly  of 
singers  in  festive  array  singing  in  concert  halls 
is  too  much  for  my  sense  of  eternal  fitness.  Yes, 
critics  have  "nerves,"  and  it  needs  a  remark 
able  interpretation  of  the  Messiah  or  kindred 
compositions  to  stir  me.  I  am  only  answering 
for  myself  —  qui  s 'excuse,  s'accuse  ?  —  and  do 
not  presume  to  gainsay  the  feelings  of  pious  folk 
who  regard  the  Messiah  as  a  sacred  function. 
But  for  those  who  tell  me  that  the  mock-turtle 
Christianity  of  Parsifal  is  "sacred"  I  merely 
retort :  "  A  fig  for  the  mystic  capon."  Naturally, 
a  concert  room  better  serves  the  practical  pur 
pose  of  singing  organizations  here  than  the  house 
of  God;  yet  I  prefer  the  church,  for  the  spec 
tacle  of  five  hundred  humans,  with  their  mouths 
wide  open  bawling  the  text  —  would  it  not  dis 
tract  one?  Sacred  fiddlesticks!  you  exclaim 
when  a  tenor,  faultlessly  clad,  arises  and  solemnly 
intones,  "And  Jesus  said,"  the  remainder  of  the 
speech  being  uttered  by  some  one  else.  ^Estheti- 
cally,  oratorio  has  not  a  leg  to  stand  on.  It  is 
neither  fish  nor  flesh.  How  dull  was  Samson  et 
Dalila  till  sung  in  costume  and  before  the  foot 
lights  !  And  it  is  not  by  any  means  very  dra 
matic.  Still,  to  many  who  do  not  visit  the 
opera  for  religious  reasons,  oratorio  is  a  species 
of  emotional  outlet.  It  is  a  half-way  house,  a 
compromise  —  you  may  enjoy  both  drama  and 
religion.  Another  thing  —  I  am  weary  of  the 
music,  as  I  weary  when  I  see  Hamlet  or  hear  the 
Fifth  Symphony,  or  look  at  the  Dresden  Ma- 

238 


CONTEMPORARY  BRAN 

donna.  I  am  not  apologizing  for  this  weakness, 
only  trying  to  explain  its  genesis.  William  Gil 
lette  has  written  about  the  " first- time"  element 
in  acting;  or  why  an  actor  must  ceaselessly  re 
new  the  freshness  of  his  original  inspiration. 
Would  that  some  sympathetic  writer  deigned 
to  take  up  the  cudgels  for  the  ear-sick  music 
critic.  It  is  difficult,  nay,  impossible,  to  recap 
ture  that  first  rapture  when  Tristan,  or  the  C 
minor  Symphony,  or  Hamlet,  swam  into  our 
ken.  That  is  why  I  did  not  "react"  the  other 
night  at  the  Oratorio  Society,  and  why,  as  my 
critique  was  reprehensible,  I  am  now  making  a 
clean  breast  of  the  matter  and  crying :  Peccavi ! 
And  here  is  my  old  friend  Frank  Sealey  mildly 
complaining  that  it  was  not  his  fault  that  his 
electric  organ  " ciphered"  for  a  bar  during  the 
evening.  As  I  have  literally  sat  at  Brother 
Sealey's  feet  for  nearly  thirty  years  —  since  the 
opening  of  Carnegie  Hall  —  it  is  not  necessary 
to  assure  him  that  I  never  doubted  that  it  was 
the  fault  of  the  organ,  not  his.  He  is  a  rock  of 
certitude  on  the  organ  bench.  But  I  did  enjoy 
Wolf-Ferrari's  Vita  Nuova,  a  beautifully  fash 
ioned  score,  too  sweetly  sentimental  in  spots  for 
the  austere  and  lovely  sonnets  of  the  deathless 
Dante;  nevertheless,  a  tour  de  force,  happily 
illustrating  my  primal  contention  that  the  ora 
torio  form  is  as  obsolescent  as  the  epic;  the  spirit, 
I  mean,  rather  than  the  form,  for  the  bony 
framework  is  there,  but  the  age  of  piety,  the 
profound  piety  that  prompted  the  composition 

239 


VARIATIONS 

of  such  glorious  music  as  Bach's  or  Handel's, 
has  quite  vanished,  to  be  replaced  by  machine- 
made  music,  the  "movies,"  and  other  stimulat 
ing  arts.  Contemporary  bran  is  filling,  but  it 
nourishes  not  the  soul.  Need  I  add,  when  the 
Oratorio  Society  sings  the  Messiah  at  Christmas- 
tide,  that  the  regular  oratorio  editor,  a  singularly 
pious  person,  will  report  the  annual  occurrence ! 
That  night,  perhaps,  I  shall  enjoy  the  brutal 
but  diverting  spectacle  of  a  wrestling  match. 
It  all  depends  on  the  amiability  of  the  sportirg 
editor. 


240 


A  MOOD  REACTIONARY 

I  CONSIDER  such  phrases  as  the  "  progress  of 
art,"  the  " improvement  of  art,"  and  " higher 
average  of  art"  as  distinctly  harmful  and  mis 
leading.  How  can  art  improve  ?  Is  art  a  some 
thing,  an  organism  that  is  capable  of  growing 
into  a  fat  maturity?  If  this  be  so,  then,  by 
the  same  token,  it  can  become  a  doddering,  senile 
thing,  and  finally  die  and  be  buried  with  the 
honors  due  its  useful  career.  It  was  Henrik 
Ibsen  who  asserted  that  the  vital  values  of  a 
truth  lasted  at  the  longest  about  twenty  years; 
after  that  the  particular  truth  rolled  into  error. 
Now,  isn't  this  quibble  concerning  "artistic 
improvement"  as  fallacious  as  the  vicious  circle 
of  the  dramatist  from  the  Land  of  the  Midnight 
Whiskers  —  or  is  it  the  Land  of  the  Midnight 
Bun?  Contrariwise,  Bach  would  be  dead, 
Mozart  moribund,  Beethoven  in  middle-aged 
decay.  Instead,  what  is  the  musical  health  of 
these  three  composers?  Have  we  a  gayer, 
blither,  more  youthful  scapegrace  writing  to-day 
than  Mozart?  Is  there  a  man  among  the  mod 
erns  more  virile,  passionate,  profound,  or  noble 
than  Beethoven?  And  Bach  is  the  boy  of  the 
trinity.  The  Well-Tempered  Clavichord  is  the 
Book  of  Eternal  Wisdom.  In  it  may  be  found 
the  past,  present,  future  of  music.  It  is  the 
Fountain  of  Eternal  Youth. 

241 


VARIATIONS 

As  a  matter  of  cold  fact,  it  is  your  modern 
who  is  ancient;  the  ancients  were  younger. 
Recall  the  Greeks  and  their  naive  joy  in  crea 
tion.  In  sorrow  the  twentieth-century  man 
brings  forth  his  art.  His  music  betrays  it.  It 
is  sad,  complicated,  hysterical,  morbid.  No 
need  to  mention  Chopin,  who  was  neurotic  — 
an  empty  medical  phrase  —  nor  Schumann,  who 
carried  in  him  the  seeds  of  madness ;  nor  Wagner, 
who  was  a  typical  decadent  on  an  epical  scale. 
Sufficient  for  the  argument  to  adduce  the  names 
of  Berlioz,  Liszt,  Tschaikovsky,  and  Richard 
Strauss.  Some  Sunday  when  the  weather  is 
wretched,  when  icicles  hang  by  the  wall,  and 
"  ways  be  foul"  and  "foul  is  fair  and  fair  is  foul," 
I  shall  tell  you  what  I  think  of  the  "blond  bar 
barian"  who  sets  to  music  crazy  philosophies, 
bloody  legends,  sublime  tommyrot,  and  the  pic 
tures  and  poems  of  his  friend.  At  present  I  am 
not  in  the  humor  nor  have  I  the  space.  Good 
white  paper  is  become  a  luxury,  like  freedom 
of  speechlessness  and  other  indelicacies  of  the 
national  cuisine. 

As  I  understand  the  jargon  of  criticism,  Ber 
lioz  is  the  father  of  modern  instrumentation. 
That  is,  he  says  nothing  original  or  significant 
in  his  music,  but  he  says  it  magnificently.  A 
purple,  pompous  rhetorician,  a  Chateaubriand 
of  the  orchestra.  His  style  covers  a  multitude 
of  musical  —  or  unmusical  —  defects  with  the 
flamboyant  cloak  of  chromatic  charity.  He 
pins  haughty,  poetic,  high-sounding  labels  to  his 
242 


A  MOOD  REACTIONARY 

compositions,  and,  like  Charles  Lamb,  we  sit 
open-mouthed  at  concerts  trying  to  fill  in  his 
big,  sonorous,  empty  frame  with  an  adequate 
picture.  Your  picture  is  not  the  same  as  mine. 
I  swear  that  the  young  man  who  sits  next  to 
me,  with  a  silly  chin,  goggle  eyes,  and  a  cocoa- 
nut-shaped  head,  sees  as  in  a  flattering  mirror, 
the  idealized  image  of  a  strong-jawed,  ox-eyed, 
classic-browed  youth,  a  mixture  of  Napoleon 
and  Byron.  I  loathe  the  music  that  makes  its 
chief  appeal  to  the  egotism  of  mankind,  all  the 
while  slyly  insinuating  that  it  only  addresses  the 
imagination.  Yes,  the  imagination  of  your  own 
splendid  ego  in  a  white  waistcoat  driving  a  new 
model  car  through  the  White  Light  district  on 
an  immoral  afternoon  in  the  puberty  of  spring. 
Let  us  pass  to  the  Hungarian  piano  virtuoso, 
who  posed  as  a  great  composer.  That  he  lent 
his  hard  cash  and  musical  themes  to  his  precious 
son-in-law,  Richard  Wagner,  is  undeniable. 
Liszt  admits  it  himself.  But,  then,  beggars 
must  not  be  choosers,  and  Liszt  gave  Wagner 
mighty  poor  stuff  at  times.  We  believe  that 
Wagner  liked  far  better  the  solid  shekels  than 
the  notes  of  hand.  Liszt  would  have  had  little 
to  say  if  Berlioz  had  not  preceded  him.  The 
idea  struck  him,  for  he  was  a  master  of  musical 
snippets,  that  Berlioz  was  too  long-winded - 
both  in  brass  and  wood  —  that  his  so-called 
symphonies  were  neither  fish,  nor  form,  nor 
good  red  tunes.  What  ho  !  cried  Master  Franz, 
I'll  give  them  a  dose  homoeopathic.  He  did, 

243 


VARIATIONS 

and  he  named  his  prescription  Symphonic  Poem, 
or,  if  you  will,  Poeme  Symphonique,  which  is 
not  the  same  thing.  Nothing  so  tickles  the 
vanity  like  this  sort  of  verbal  fireworks.  "It 
leaves  so  much  to  the  imagination/'  murmurs 
the  fat  man  with  a  22-collar  and  a  No.  6  hat. 
It  does.  And  his  kind  of  imagination  —  good 
Lord !  Liszt,  nothing  daunted  because  he 
couldn't  shake  out  an  honest  throw  of  a  tune 
from  his  technical  dice-box,  proceeded  to  build 
his  noise  on  so-called  themes,  claiming  that  in 
this  method  he  derived  from  Bach.  Not  so. 
Bach's  themes  are  subjects  for  fugal  treatment, 
Liszt's  are  used  symphonically.  The  parallel 
is  uncritical.  Besides,  Daddy  Liszt  had  no  me 
lodic  invention.  Bach  had,  and  in  abundance; 
witness  his  chorals,  masses,  oratorios,  preludes, 
suites,  fugues.  However,  the  Berlioz  ball  had 
to  be  kept  a-rolling;  the  formula  was  easy. 
Liszt  named  his  poems,  named  his  very  notes, 
put  dog-collars  on  his  harmonies  —  yet  no  one 
whistled  after  them.  Whoever  whistled  a  Liszt 
tune? 

Tschaikovsky  kept  one  eye  on  Liszt  and  Ber 
lioz,  the  other  on  Bellini  and  Gounod.  What 
would  have  happened  if  he  had  been  one-eyed 
I  cannot  pretend  to  say.  In  love  with  lush, 
sensual  melody,  infatuated  with  the  gorgeous 
pyro technical  effects  of  Berlioz  and  Liszt,  also 
the  pomposities  of  Meyerbeer,  this  Russian,  who 
began  too  late  in  his  studies,  succeeded  in  manu 
facturing  a  number  of  ineffectual  works.  On 
244 


A  MOOD   REACTIONARY 

them  he  bestowed  strained,  fantastic  titles, 
empty,  meaningless,  pretty,,  and  as  he  was  con- 
trapun tally  short-winded,  he  made  his  so-called 
tone-poems  shorter  than  Liszt's.  He  had  little 
aptitude  for  the  symphonic  form,  and  his  de 
velopment  section  is  always  his  weak  point. 
Too  much  Italian  sentiment,  and  a  sentiment 
that  is  often  hectic  and  morbid.  He  raves  or 
whines  like  the  people  in  Russian  fiction.  I 
think  he  was  touched  in  the  upper  story,  that 
is,  till  I  heard  the  compositions  of  R.  Strauss  of 
Munich.  What  misfit  music  for  such  a  joyous 
name,  a  name  evocative  of  all  that  is  gay,  witty, 
sparkling,  spontaneous  in  music.  After  Mozart, 
give  me  Strauss  —  Johann,  not  Richard. 

No  longer  the  wheezings,  gaspings,  short- 
breathed  phrases  of  Liszt.  No  longer  the  sen 
suality,  loose  construction,  formlessness  and 
vodka  besotted  peasant  dances  of  Tschaikovsky, 
but  a  blending  of  Wagner,  Brahms,  Liszt  —  and 
the  classics.  Richard  Ostrich  knows  his  little 
affair.  He  is  clever,  he  is  skilled.  He  has  his 
chamber-music  moments,  his  lyric  outbursts. 
His  early  songs  are  singable.  It  is  his  vile, 
perverse  orgies  of  orchestral  noises  that  wound 
my  ears.  No  normal  man  ever  erected  such 
mad  architectural  tonal  schemes.  He  should  be 
penned  behind  the  bars  of  his  own  mad  music. 
He  lacks  melody.  He  dotes  on  ugliness.  He 
suffers  from  the  uglification  complex.  He  writes 
to  distracting,  unheavenly  lengths,  worst  of  all, 
his  harmonies  are  hideous.  But  he  doesn't  for- 

245 


VARIATIONS 

get  to  call  his  monstrosities  fanciful  names.  If  it 
isn't  Don  Juan  —  shades  of  Mozart  —  it  is  Don 
Quixote  —  shades  of  Cervantes.  This  literary 
title  humbug  serves  as  the  plaster  for  our 
broken  heads  and  split  eardrums.  Berlioz, 
Tschaikovsky  and  R.  Strauss  are  not  for  all 
time. 

The  truth  is  that  musical  art  has  gone  far 
afield  from  the  main  travelled  road,  has  been 
led  into  blind  alleys  and  dark  forests.  If  this 
art  has  made  no  "progress  in  fugue,  song,  sonata, 
symphony,  string  quartet,  oratorio,  opera,"  who 
has  " improved"  on  Bach,  Handel,  Haydn,  Mo 
zart,  Gluck,  Beethoven,  Schubert,  Schumann, 
Chopin?  Name,  name,  I  ask.  What's  the 
use  of  talking  about  the  "higher  average  of 
to-day?"  How  much  higher?  You  mean  that 
more  people  go  to  concerts,  more  people  enjoy 
music,  than  fifty  or  a  hundred  years  ago.  Do 
they?  I  doubt  it.  Of  what  use  all  our  huge 
temples  of  worship  if  the  true  gods  of  art  no 
longer  be  worshipped  therein?  Numbers  prove 
nothing.  Majorities  are  not  always  in  the 
right.  There  has  been  no  great  original  music 
composed  since  the  death  of  Beethoven,  for, 
strictly  speaking,  the  music-drama  of  Wagner 
is  a  synthesis  of  the  arts,  and,  despite  his  indi 
vidual  genius,  in  union  there  is  death  —  in  the 
case  of  the  Seven  Arts.  United  we  fall,  divided 
we  stand!  The  multiplication  of  orchestras, 
opera-houses,  singing  societies,  and  concerts  are 
not  indicative  that  general  culture  is  achieved. 
246 


A  MOOD  REACTIONARY 

Quality,  not  quantity,  should  be  the  shibboleth. 
The  tradition  of  the  classics  is  fading,  soon  it 
shall  vanish.  We  care  little  for  the  masters. 
Modern  music  worship  is  a  fashionable  fad. 
People  go  to  listen  because  they  think  it  the 
mode.  Alack  and  alas !  that  is  not  the  true  spirit 
in  which  to  approach  the  Holy  of  Holies,  Bach, 
Handel,  Mozart,  and  Beethoven.  Oremus ! 


247 


MUSICAL  "POTTERISM" 

POTTERISM  is  a  clever,  amusing  satire  on  the 
British  philistine  which  has  had  considerable 
vogue  in  London  and  New  York.  It  was  written 
by  Rose  Macaulay,  who  is  said  to  have  a  dozen 
novels  to  her  credit.  The  lady  has  evidently 
read  Shaw  profitably;  that  is,  Nietzsche  strained 
through  the  Shaw  sieve,  for  G.  B.  S.  never  had 
an  original  idea.  She  defines  Potterism  as  a 
frame  of  mind,  not  a  set  of  opinions.  Potterism 
is  only  a  new  word  for  an  old  thing  —  cant,  or, 
as  we  say,  humbug,  and,  on  its  more  serious 
side,  hypocrisy.  Smug  self-satisfaction  is  its 
keynote.  Will  Irwin  in  a  flash  of  divination 
defined  the  particular  quality  as  "highbrow," 
a  species  of  sterile  intellectualism  which  irritates 
sensible  people  because  of  the  lofty,  condescend 
ing  attitude  assumed  by  certain  persons  who, 
terribly  at  ease  in  Zion,  are  seemingly  in  the 
secret  councils  of  the  Almighty.  Don  Marquis 
daily  tilts  at  assthetic  sham  in  his  stimulating 
Sun  Dial  column,  and  Gelett  Burgess,  the  au 
thor  of  the  deathless  Purple  Cow,  long  ago  hit 
out  at  the  Potterism  of  his  time.  Potterism, 
like  the  rich,  is  always  with  us.  We  are  all  of 
us  more  or  less  Potterites.  Dickens  painted 
the  tribe,  beginning  with  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter,  not 
forgetting  Podsnappery.  Thackeray's  scimitar 
prose  cut  through  snobbish  pretenses,  while  a 
248 


MUSICAL  "POTTERISM" 

French  philosopher,  Jules  de  Gautier,  in  his 
Bovaryisme,  has  demonstrated  that  we  are 
victims  of  the  world  illusion  —  to  pretend  to 
be  otherwise  than  we  are.  It  is  a  law  of  life, 
a  superstition,  this  game  of  self-illuding,  and 
superstition  is  the  cement  of  civilization. 

Therefore,  Miss  Macaulay  has  dealt  with 
nothing  novel,  but  she  has  written  an  agree 
able  variation  on  the  theme  of  human  weak 
ness,  and  the  most  engaging  quality  of  her  for 
mula  is  its  elasticity.  No  matter  the  depart 
ment  of  life,  Potterism  lurks  thereabouts. 
Musical  Potterism,  for  example,  is  everywhere 
rampant.  It  bobs  up  in  music  criticisms  and 
peeps  forth  in  daily  intercourse.  "Give  me 
good  old  Mozart/'  cries  the  classical  Potterite, 
"and  keep  your  modern  kickshaws.  Mozart 
is  good  enough  for  me!"  Alas,  we  think  Mo 
zart  is  too  good  for  this  bonehead,  who  no  doubt 
prefers  a  Broadway  comic  opera  to  The  Mar 
riage  of  Figaro.  Another  of  the  exasperating 
Potterites  is  the  haunter  of  concert  halls  who 
spends  his  time  in  comparing  violinists,  pianists, 
singers,  orchestras.  Criticism  thrives  on  com 
parisons.  That  we  know;  but  the  infernal  hair 
splitting  over  this  bald  subject  gets  on  your 
nerves.  Music  and  morals  is  another  favorite 
grouping  of  two  widely  sundered  things.  Not 
so,  asserts  the  uplifter  who  seeks  sermons  in 
running  Bachs  and  usually  finds  immoral  rub 
ble.  Of  all  the  damnable  nuisances  in  the  Vale 
of  Tone,  commend  me  to  your  moralizer.  He 
249 


VARIATIONS 

is  too  much  in  evidence  nowadays,  and  his  per 
nicious  influence  will,  I  feel  certain,  close  every 
theatre,  opera-house,  picture-gallery,  and  book 
in  our  present  United  States  of  Slaves. 

There  is  too  much  critical  cant  concerning 
the  classics  of  music.  How  uncritical  we  are ! 
We  say  Mozart  and  Beethoven  just  as  we  say 
Goethe  and  Schiller.  Such  bracketing  is  bubbling 
bosh.  It  is  almost  Hegelian  in  its  identification 
of  opposites.  We  can  understand  the  conjunc 
tion  of  Mascagni  and  Leoncavello  in  Cavalleria 
and  Pagliacci,  a  managerial  marriage,  with  our 
eye  on  the  box  office.  But  Bach  and  Beethoven. 
Or  Schumann  and  Chopin.  How  absurd  and 
lazy-minded  is  such  association  of  names !  One 
of  the  most  ingrained  of  Potterisms  is  that  the 
gallery  at  the  opera  is  the  repository  of  the 
most  precious  criticism.  For  gallery,  read  the 
standees  at  our  opera  —  the  rail  birds,  so  called. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  most  illegitimate  ap 
plause  comes  from  these  quarters.  Does  a  tenor 
bawl,  a  basso  bellow,  a  soprano  scream,  thunder 
ous  explosions  prove  our  contention.  When 
Galli-Curci  sang  off  key  at  the  Lexington  Thea 
tre  last  season  she  was  hailed  in  an  unmistak 
ably  cordial  manner.  We  have  noticed  the 
same  lack  of  taste  at  the  San  Carlo,  Naples;  at 
La  Scala,  in  Milan;  in  Paris,  Berlin,  and  Lon 
don.  Italian  audiences,  especially  of  the  top 
gallery,  are  supposed  to  possess  finer  ears  than 
other  people.  More  musical  Potterism.  They 
applaud  in  Italy,  as  they  applaud  in  New  York 
250 


MUSICAL  "POTTERISM" 

or  London,  the  singers  with  the  stentorian  or 
extremely  high  voices;  whether  they  sing  in 
tune  or  not,  whether  they  rhythmically  distort 
the  musical  phrase  or  not,  matters  little  to  these 
fanatics  for  noise.  And  invariably  they  drown 
the  orchestra  if  the  singer  happens  to  end  a 
few  bars  before  it.  That  the  composition  should 
be  allowed  to  terminate  logically  does  not  enter 
into  their  unmusical  comprehension.  To  bruise 
their  muscular  palms  and  shout  is  their  idea  of 
sensibility.  We  do  not  refer  now  to  the  official 
claque,  if  there  be  one  at  the  opera,  but  to  the 
diabolical  hand-clapping  and  hurrahing  which 
is  becoming  a  formidable  menace  to  the  enjoy 
ment  of  the  musical  portion  of  the  audience. 
No  applause  is  tolerated  during  Parsifal  until 
act-ends,  no  applause  is  tolerated  at  Tristan 
and  Isolde  until  the  curtain  falls,  and  what  a 
relief  it  is  not  to  be  forced  to  endure  the  belch 
ing  enthusiasm  and  vulgar  fist-thumping  in 
the  middle  of  a  musical  phrase !  Why,  then, 
are  not  Italian  and  French  operas  given  the 
same  chance?  We  are  indeed  barbarians  in 
this  cult  of  noise.  We  can't  even  escape  noise 
within  our  opera-house.  It  would  be  a  wise 
regulation  if  applause  could  be  confined  within 
legitimate  limits  —  at  the  end  of  each  act.  It 
might  not  please  some  singers,  who  are  so  avid 
of  applause  that  they  actually  hire  it  by  the 
yard,  but  it  would  be  a  boon  to  the  occupants 
of  the  stalls  and  boxes  at  the  Metropolitan. 
Hasta  la  vista ! 

251 


VARIATIONS 

We  blush  to  utter  such  Potterisms.  There 
should  be  no  necessity  for  these  obvious  criti 
cisms.  Another  annoying  Potterism  is  the  grow 
ing  hero-worship  of  conductors  —  nothing  rare, 
by  the  way,  in  the  history  of  art.  We  remember 
Theodore  Thomas  in  his  palmy  days;  remember 
that  smoothly  fitting  dress  coat  of  his.  Yes, 
there  were  many  women  who  attended  the 
Philharmonic  Society  concerts  to  gaze  ecstati 
cally  upon  the  shapely  back  and  harmonious 
movements  of  this  handsome  conductor.  An 
other  prima  donna  conductor  was  Arthur  Nik- 
isch  of  the  Boston  band.  He  waved  lily-white 
hands;  his  weaving  motions  fascinated  the 
eye.  They  seemed  in  their  rhythmic  variety 
the  externalization  of  the  music  he  was  inter 
preting,  and,  according  to  Delsarte  and  Dai- 
croze,  they  were.  But  both  Thomas  and  Nikisch 
were  great  conductors  —  Nikisch  still  is;  in 
deed,  he  is  the  dean  of  great  conductors.  His 
personal  mannerisms  were  and  are  taken  as  a 
matter  of  course.  We  do  not  include  Arthur 
Bodanzky  among  the  prima-donna  baton  heroes. 
Nevertheless,  he  is  a  hero,  and  a  hero  always 
in  a  hurry.  He  is  the  most  precise  and  business 
like  of  our  conductors.  He  seems  as  if  he  were 
making  a  train  to  Eldorado.  Yet  it  is  only  a 
fancy.  He  is  absolutely  master  of  his  technical 
and  intellectual  resources.  The  enormous  dy 
namic  energy  of  the  man,  his  driving  power,  are 
concentrated  at  the  tip  of  his  stick.  If  the  Bos 
ton  Symphony  Orchestra  boasts  a  demon  drum- 
252 


MUSICAL  "POTTERISM" 

mer,  the  National  Symphony  Orchestra  can 
boast  a  demon  conductor.  Bodanzky  is  de 
moniacal  when  he  cuts  loose.  At  the  second 
Tristan  performance  he  galloped  his  men  at 
such  a  pace  that  the  singers  could  only  pant 
after  them.  A  great  conductor  is  Artur  with  the 
Weber  profile  and  the  propulsive  right  hand. 
If  he  had  a  calm  left  hand  like  Thomas  or 
Nikisch  his  readings  would  benefit  thereby. 
But  how  stimulating  is  his  conducting!  You 
swing  along  on  the  crest  of  exaltation  and  for 
get  the  composer's  intentions  in  the  tumultuous 
symphonic  sea.  A  brilliant  apparition,  a  stork 
of  genius,  but  with  brains,  always  brains.  The 
dark  horse  of  American  conductors  is  Ossip 
Gabrilowitsch.  That  young  man  will  bear 
watching. 

His  antipodes  is  Walter  Damrosch,  who  is 
as  familiar  a  spectacle  nowadays  as  Trinity 
Church.  Walter  leaves  nothing  to  chance.  He 
doesn't  believe  in  the  imprevu;  with  him  the 
unexpected  never  happens.  There  is  a  sense 
of  security  at  his  Symphony  Society,  the  sort 
of  security  that  appeals  to  you  when  sitting 
under  a  long  beloved  preacher.  Since  1881, 
on  and  off,  we  have  sat  metaphorically  at  the 
feet  of  Walter  Damrosch,  and  not  once  has  he 
startled,  not  once  has  he  altogether  disappointed 
us.  He  is  safe,  sane,  and  —  sometimes  —  sopo 
rific.  But  he  never  uses  rouge  or  pencils  the 
eyebrows  of  his  interpretations;  perfume  is  to 
him  abhorrent.  Good  old  Walter!  His  has 

253 


VARIATIONS 

been  a  long  race,  and  his  a  sober  victory.  Leo 
pold  Stokowski  is  a  pocket  edition  of  Nikisch, 
a  Nikisch  without  genius.  He  is  the  ideal  prima- 
donna  conductor  and  exudes  sweetness  and  light 
(Einstein  says  that  light  exudes),  and  as  regards 
the  technique  of  the  baton  he  has  all  his  contem 
poraries  beaten  to  a  frazzle  —  save  one,  Arturo 
Toscanini.  Such  economy  of  gesture,  such 
weighty  significance  in  every  motion  are  praise 
worthy.  His  musicianship  is  excellent,  his 
memory  remarkable,  although  commanding  in 
tellectuality  is  absent.  He  too  has  a  sinuous 
line  in  his  back  that  enchants  his  feminine  au 
dience.  He  is  graceful,  and  inevitably  makes 
his  entrance  carrying  his  baton  as  if  it  were  a 
baby.  The  Philadelphia  Orchestra  is  largely 
composed  of  mediocre  material,  but  thanks  to 
the  admirable  disciplinarian,  that  is,  Stokowski, 
it  sounds  at  times  as  if  of  prime  quality.  And 
tonal  quality  is  precisely  what  it  lacks.  Its 
conductor  hypnotizes  his  audience  into  think 
ing  it  is  so.  Ah,  these  Poles!  The  Oriental 
mango  magic  trick  over  again.  Stokowski  is 
young,  blond,  and  has  a  Chopinesque  head,  but 
in  profile  his  chin  is  as  diffident  as  a  poached 
egg.  Pierre  Monteux,  like  a  happy  nation,  has 
no  personal  history.  He  is  an  accomplished 
chef.  We  enjoy  his  cuisine.  There  is  a  savory 
touch  of  the  Midi  in  his  musical  ragouts.  And 
to  my  horror  I  find  myself  indulging  in  the  most 
reprehensible  musical  Potterism. 


254 


MY  "CHILDE  ROLAND" 

IF  you  keep  good  company  too  long  it  is  dif 
ficult  to  remain  a  decent  member  of  society. 
This  sounds  like  a  faded  paradox,  but  I  mean 
it.  No  doubt  vaso-motor  reflex  action  is  the 
cause.  Try  it  yourself.  Frequent  the  abodes 
of  the  self-righteous,  of  prohibitionists,  of  re 
formers  and  uplifters  generally,  and  you  will 
soon  crave  moral  wood-alcohol,  possibly  the 
more  vicious  benzine.  Too  much  opera  drives 
me  back  to  the  church,  and  thence  to  the  House 
of  the  Flesh  where  the  spirit  sleepeth.  Because 
he  was  a  clergyman's  son  and  brought  up  in  a 
moral  straight  jacket,  dosed  with  moralic  acid, 
Friedrich  Nietzsche  exploded  such  a  phrase  as 
"  Christianity,  alcohol  —  the  two  great  means 
of  corruption"  to  civilization.  I  have  often 
wondered  why  he  dragged  in  rum?  (This  is 
a  variant  on  Whistler's  epigram.) 

However,  I'm  not  attempting  unimaginary 
conversations,  nor  describing  insurrections  in 
oyster-shells.  A  Scotch  proverb  warns  us: 
" Never  tell  your  foe  when  your  foot  sleeps"; 
nevertheless  I  shall  make  a  confession  that  in 
volves  both  feet,  also  my  sleeping  cortical  cells. 
The  good  company  mentioned  above  chiefly 
consisted  of  young,  ambitious  composers,  an 
approved  gang  of  musical  chaps  who  delighted 

255 


VARIATIONS 

in  symphonically  setting  poetic  ideas,  whether 
from  Byron,  Nietzsche,  Ben  De  Casseres,  or 
d'Annunzio.  And  when  I  say  symphonically  I 
mean  symphonic  poems,  for  the  great  sympho- 
nists  were  long  ago  voted  by  this  coterie  as 
"old  stuff."  Liszt  and  Richard  Strauss  were 
our  springboards.  The  Debussy  influence  was 
yet  to  come.  It  was  Tchaikovsky  who  most 
appealed  to  us.  Realism,  not  imagination,  was 
our  shibboleth.  As  all  my  friends  were  com 
posing  I  took  it  into  my  head  to  go  them  one 
better,  to  be  more  realistic  than  the  ultra-real 
ists.  I  had,  so  I  fancied,  the  necessary  science. 
I  consulted  young  Henry  Hadley,  who  was 
quite  a  promising  lad  at  that  time,  and  he  ad 
vised  —  after  putting  me  through  a  course  of 
contrapuntal  sprouts  —  to  go  ahead  and  do 
my  worst,  which  worst  would  only  mean  spoil 
ing  music-paper,  while  my  best  — !  Who 
knows  ? 

I  fancied  that  I  had  mastered  the  tools  of 
my  trade,  that  I  knew  every  form  from  a  song 
to  a  symphony,  and  that  my  scoring  comprised 
the  entire  gamut  of  orchestral  pigments  —  you 
see,  false  modesty  didn't  stand  in  the  way  — 
so  I  began  to  cast  about  for  my  poetic  subject 
and  its  musical  counterpart,  hoping  —  such  is 
the  audacity  of  youth  —  that  the  appearance 
of  the  pair  would  be  simultaneous,  as  in  the 
dual-composing  of  Richard  Wagner.  I  didn't 
expect  much,  did  I?  Well,  one  fine  night,  as 
I  wearily  tossed  on  my  folding  bedouin,  my 
256 


MY  "CHILDE  ROLAND" 

musical  imagination  began  to  work.  I  remem 
ber  now  that  it  was  a  spring  night,  the  moon 
rounded,  lustrous,  and  silvering  the  lake  be 
neath  my  window.  I  had  been  re-reading  for 
the  hundredth  time  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark 
Tower  Came,  from  my  favorite  poet,  Robert 
Browning,  with  its  sinister  coloring,  its  spiritual 
overtones.  Yet  until  that  moment  it  had  never 
suggested  musical  treatment.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  exquisite  cool  of  the  night,  its  haunting 
mellow  atmosphere,  that  fermented  in  my  brain- 
box.  I  went  to  the  window.  Suddenly  I  saw 
a  huge  fantastic  cloud  shadow  project  a  jagged 
black  pattern  on  the  water.  Presto!  I  had 
my  theme.  It  came  with  an  electric  snap  that 
blinded  me  for  an  instant.  It  would  be  the 
first  motive  of  my  symphonic  poem,  Childe 
Roland.  It  was  thought  in  the  key  of  B  minor, 
a  key  emblematic  of  the  dauntless  knight  who 
to  "the  dark  tower  came,"  unfettered  by  ene 
mies,  physical  or  spiritual. 

How  my  imagination  seethed  the  night 
through,  as  I  am  one  of  those  unhappy  men 
who,  the  moment  an  idea  comes  to  them,  must 
develop  it  to  the  bitter  end.  Childe  Roland 
kept  me  on  tenterhooks  till  dawn.  I  heard  the 
call  of  his  "dauntless  horn,"  and  saw  the  "squat 
tower."  The  knight's  theme,  so  it  seemed  to 
me,  was  Roland  incarnated  in  tone.  I  over 
heard  its  underlying  harmonies  with  the  in 
strumentation,  all  sombre,  gloomy,  the  note 
of  gladness  missing.  I  treated  my  theme  with 

257 


VARIATIONS 

vitality,  announcing  it  on  the  English  horn, 
with  a  strange  rhythmic  background  supplied 
by  the  tympani;  the  strings  in  division  played 
tremolando,  the  brass  was  staccato  and  muted. 
It  was  novel  enough  to  me,  although  this  de 
scription  must  sound  banal  to  modern  ears. 
After  seven  months  of  agonizing  revision,  prun 
ing,  clipping,  cutting,  and  hawking  it  about  for 
the  inspection  of  my  friends,  and  getting  laughed 
at  for  my  pains,  I  finished  the  unwieldy  work. 
But  the  performance !  Diplomacy  won  the  day. 
A  music-critic,  who  could  compose  a  symphonic 
poem  was  more  of  a  rarity  in  those  far-away 
days  than  now,  when  children  make  fugues 
while  you  wait.  There  was  an  interview  with 
Herr  Kapellmeister  Schnabelowsky  and  a  def 
inite  promise.  I  shall  spare  you  details  of  the 
seventeen  rehearsals,  hours  and  hours  in  dura 
tion,  when  my  amateurish  orchestration  was 
held  up  to  scorn  by  the  conductor  for  the  delec 
tation  of  the  band  (though  I  always  paid  for 
his  beer  at  Liichow's).  The  audience  at  the 
concert  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  in  the  pro 
gramme-book  the  entire  poem,  Childe  Roland, 
no  doubt  wondering  what  it  meant.  My  sym 
phonic  poem  would  make  clear  the  dark,  dubious 
sayings  of  the  poet.  I  believed  then  in  the  power 
of  music  to  portray  definite  soul-states,  to  mirror 
moods,  to  depict,  though  indefinitely,  common 
every-day  physical  facts. 

My  composition  was  adequately  played,  of 
that  there  was  no  doubt.    Give  the  Herr  Kapell- 

258 


MY  "CHILDE  ROLAND" 

meister  his  due.  It  was  only  ninety  minutes 
long  —  remember  it  was  a  symphonic  poem, 
not  a  symphony  —  and  I  sat  in  nervous  perspira 
tion  as  I  listened  to  the  Childe  Roland  theme, 
to  the  squat  tower  theme,  the  "sudden  little 
river"  motive,  the  horrid  engine  of  war  motive, 
the  sinister  grinning  false-guide  theme,  in  short, 
to  the  many  motives  of  the  poem  with  its  tre 
mendous  apotheosis,  ending  with  the  blast  from 
the  slug-horn  of  the  dauntless  knight.  I  hope 
you  are  acquainted  with  this  extraordinary 
poem,  for  I  have  met  confirmed  Browningites 
who  had  never  read  it.  After  Paracelsus  and 
Sordello  it  is  my  daily  sustenance.  The  apothe 
osis  theme  I  sounded  with  twelve  trombones, 
twenty-one  basset  horns,  one  calliope  and  a 
chorus  of  one  thousand  two  hundred,  with  a 
vacuum  choir  for  celestial  coloring.  It  almost 
brought  down  the  roof  and  I  was  the  happiest 
person  in  the  audience.  As  I  went  away  I  en 
countered  an  old  friend,  the  critic  of  The  Dis 
ciples  of  Tone,  who  said  to  me: 

"Mon  cher  maitre,  I  congratulate  you,  it 
beats  Richard  Strauss  all  hollow.  Who  and 
what  was  your  Childe  Roland?  Was  he  any 
relative  of  Byron's  Childe  Harold?  No,  yes, 
no?  I  suppose  the  first  theme  represented  the 
'galumping'  of  his  horse,  and  that  funny  tri 
angular  fugue  meant  the  horse  was  lame  in  one 
leg  and  going  it  on  three.  Adieu!  again  con 
gratulations.  I'm  in  a  hurry."  He  fled.  Tri 
angular  fugue!  Why,  that  typified  the  cross- 

259 


VARIATIONS 

roads  before  which  Childe  Roland  hesitates. 
How  I  detested  that  unimaginative  critic !  I 
was  indeed  disheartened.  Then  I  was  saluted 
by  a  musical  lady: 

"It  was  grand,  perfectly  grand,  but  why  did 
you  introduce  a  funeral  march  in  the  middle? 
You  know  in  the  poem  Childe  Roland  is  not 
killed  till  the  end."  I  thanked  her  with  a  wry 
face.  The  funeral  march  she  alluded  to  was 
not  a  march  but  the  Quagmire  theme,  that 
quagmire  from  which  queer  faces  threateningly 
mock  at  the  brave  knight.  Hopeless,  thought 
I,  musical  people  have  no  imagination.  In  the 
morning  newspapers  I  was  treated  rather 
roughly.  I  was  accused  of  cribbing  my  open 
ing  theme  from  the  overture  to  The  Flying 
Dutchman,  and  giving  it  a  rhythmic  twist  for 
my  own  ends  —  as  if  I  hadn't  conceived  it  on 
the  spur  of  an  inspired  minute!  I  was  also 
told  that  I  couldn't  write  a  fugue,  that  my  or 
chestration  was  overladen,  my  part-writing 
crooked,  while  the  work  as  a  whole  was  deficient 
in  symmetry,  development,  repose,  above  all 
in  coherence.  This  last  was  too  much.  If 
Browning's  poem  was  pictured  in  my  music, 
why,  then,  Browning  was  to  be  blamed  for  the 
incoherence,  not  I.  I  had  faithfully  followed 
his  poetic  narrative.  Years  later,  when  I  be 
came  a  member  of  the  critical  guild,  I  saw  in  a 
clearer  light  the  reasons  for  those  divagations. 
You  can't  fool  all  the  critics  all  the  time. 

Months  afterward  I  read  in  his  book,  The 
260 


MY   "CHILDE  ROLAND" 

Beautiful  in  Music,  by  Edward  Hanslick,  that 
"  Definite  feelings  and  emotions  are  unsus 
ceptible  of  being  embodied  in  music."  So  I 
had  been  on  a  false  track.  Charles  Lamb  and 
Hanslick  had  reached  the  same  conclusion  by 
diverse  roads.  I  realized  that  my  symphonic 
poem  Childe  Roland  told  nothing  to  its  hearers 
of  Browning's  poem;  that  my  own  subjective 
and  overthrown  imaginings  were  not  worth  a 
rush;  that  as  music  the  composition  had  ob 
jective  existence,  though  not  as  a  poetical  pic 
ture,  which  must  be  judged  on  its  musical  merits 
alone;  its  themes,  development,  formal  excel 
lence,  and  not  because  of  its  arbitrary  fidelity 
to  a  literary  programme.  When  I  set  about 
analyzing,  I  discovered  what  poor  stuff  I  had 
produced;  how  my  fancy  had  tricked  me  into 
believing  that  my  half  dozen  heavily  instru 
mented  themes,  with  their  restless  migrations 
into  many  tonalities  were  "  souls  and  tales  mar 
vellously  mirrored,"  when  they  were  nothing 
of  the  kind. 

In  reality  my  ignorance  of  form,  and  lack  of 
contrapunted  knowledge,  had  made  me  label 
the  work  a  "  symphonic  poem" — an  elastic, 
high-sounding,  pompous,  and  empty  tithe.  In 
a  spirit  of  revenge  on  my  fatuity  I  rearranged 
the  score  for  small  orchestra  and  it  is  now  played 
in  the  circus  under  the  better  understood  name 
of  The  Patrol  of  the  Night-Stick,  and  the  critical 
press  has  particularly  praised  the  graphic  power 
of  the  night-stick  motive  and  the  verisimilitude 
261 


VARIATIONS 

of  the  quick  " get-away"  of  the  burglars  in  the 
elaborate  coda.    Alas !  poor  Childe  Roland. 

If  our  young  composers  would  study  Hans- 
lick's  book  much  good  might  accrue.  It  is  all 
very  well  to  give  your  composition  a  grandiose 
title,  but  do  not  expect  that  your  audience  will 
understand  your  idea.  We  may  be  thinking  of 
something  quite  different,  according  to  our  re 
spective  temperaments.  I  may  enjoy  the  formal 
musical  side;  my  neighbor,  for  all  I  know,  will, 
in  imagination,  have  buried  his  rich,  irritable 
old  aunt;  therefore  your  paean  of  gladness,  with 
its  clamor  of  brazen  trumpets,  means  for  him 
the  triumphant  ride  home  from  the  cemetery 
and  the  anticipated  joys  of  the  post-mortuary 
baked  meats  and  the  subsequent  jag.  You 
never  can  tell. 


262 


"OSCAR"  AND  DVORAK 

WELL  I  remember  the  day  when  Oscar  Ham- 
merstein  first  entered  the  office  of  the  Musical 
Courier  and  introduced  himself  to  Editor  Marc 
A.  Blumenberg.  The  year  may  have  been  1888, 
perhaps  1889.  He  told  Mr.  Blumenberg  that 
he  was  worth  a  million  dollars,  which  sum  he 
had  made  from  a  patent  cigar-cutting  machine; 
he  also  said  that  he  was  the  editor  of  a  trade 
journal  devoted  to  the  tobacco  industry.  Blu 
menberg  looked  at  me,  winked,  and  shook  his 
head.  The  future  impresario,  with  that  ironical 
smile  of  his,  noticed  the  incredulous  movement 
and  asked:  "You  think  I'm  meshugah?  I'll 
prove  that  I'm  not  crazy,"  and  he  produced  irre 
fragable  evidence  that  he  was  neither  crazy  nor 
poverty-stricken.  He  was  worth  more  than  a 
million,  and  Marc  immediately  became  inter 
ested.  Who  wouldn't  have?  Oscar  was  then 
dreaming  of  opera  in  English.  The  failures  of 
American  operatic  companies  had  only  blazed 
a  trail  for  him,  a  trail  that  would  be  bound  to 
end  in  success.  He  thought  that  good  singing 
in  our  native  language  at  moderate  prices  would 
solve  the  problem.  Every  experimenter  starts 
out  with  that  simple  thesis,  a  dangerous  one,  as 
opera  has  little  to  do  with  art,  music,  good  sing 
ing,  or  vernacular  speech. 
263 


VARIATIONS 

Opera  is  an  exotic.  It  is  a  fashionable  func 
tion  or  nothing.  Oscar  was  told  this  by  Blu- 
menberg,  but  he  in  turn  shook  his  head.  He 
proposed  to  be  another  Columbus  and  show 
them  the  egg  trick.  He  had  a  hundred  prede 
cessors,  and  no  doubt  he  will  have  a  thousand 
successors.  But  somehow  the  egg  never  stands; 
that  is,  in  English. 

There  was  much  pow-wowing  between  the 
two  editors  that  I  can't  recall.  The  less  I  un 
derstand  a  libretto  the  more  I  enjoy  the  music. 
I  agree  with  Harry  B.  Smith,  who  has  said  that 
when  an  opera  is  a  success  the  composer  gets 
the  credit;  when  a  failure,  the  blame  is  saddled 
upon  the  book.  As  the  librettist  of  Robin  Hood 
and  a  string  of  other  De  Koven  and  Smith 
operas,  Mr.  Smith  knows  what  he  is  talking 
about.  W.  S.  Gilbert  was  in  the  same  rocking 
boat  with  Arthur  Sullivan.  Later,  Oscar  Ham- 
merstein  was  to  settle  the  question  by  writing 
both  words  and  music  for  The  Kohinoor,  thus 
patterning  after  Richard  Wagner.  But  at  first 
he  was  rather  timid.  I  don't  believe  he  took 
Blumenberg's  advice,  or,  indeed,  the  advice 
of  any  one,  except  Campanini's.  Opera  at  the 
Harlem  Opera  House  followed  after  an  interval. 
It  was  not  an  enlivening  affair.  When  I  read 
in  some  obituary  articles  that  Hammerstein  had 
engaged  Lilli  Lehmann,  Schumann-Heink,  Al- 
vary,  Fischer,  and  others  for  his  One  Hundred 
and  Twenty-fifth-Street  season,  I  also  shook  my 
head.  I  can't  remember  such  an  imposing  ar- 
264 


"OSCAR"  AND  DVORAK 

ray  —  as  they  say  in  funeral  notices  —  at  the 
old  Harlem  Opera  House.  Does  any  one?  I 
remember  the  burning  mountain  in  Auber's 
Masaniello,  or  The  Dumb  Girl  of  Portici  (what  a 
film  it  would  make,  this  dumbness),  and  there 
were  other  mediocre  revivals,  not  worthy  of 
critical  consideration. 

However,  Oscar  was  not  to  be  discouraged. 
He  proceeded  to  play  the  game  with  energy  and 
recklessness.  He  was  a  gambler  born.  Organ 
izing  opera  companies,  vaudeville  shows,  erect 
ing  opera-houses  in  New  York,  Philadelphia, 
London,  building  theatres,  playing  with  men 
and  millions,  what  were  the  achievements  of 
Henry  E.  Abbey  or  Colonel  Jack  Haverly  com 
pared  with  those  of  this  shrewd,  ever- witty,  good- 
tempered  Hebrew,  who  was  more  prodigal  with 
his  own  money  than  other  managers  were,  and 
are,  with  the  capital  of  strangers? 

Hammerstein's  original  operetta  was  once 
upon  a  time  as  celebrated  as  his  hat.  The  com 
position  was  the  result  of  a  wager  made  by 
Oscar  and  Gustave  Kerker,  the  composer  of 
The  Belle  of  New  York,  Castles  in  the  Air,  and 
a  dozen  other  popular  pieces.  Kerker  is  a  well- 
trained  musician,  and,  naturally,  he  was  rather 
sceptical  when  Oscar  boasted  of  his  musical 
genius.  Whatever  gifts  Oscar  may  have  pos 
sessed,  modesty  was  not  one  of  his  failings.  I 
have  heard  him  quote  with  gusto  Goethe's  dic 
tum  as  to  the  modesty  of  fools.  At  a  table  one 
afternoon  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  at  the  old 
265 


VARIATIONS 

Gilsey  House,  in  the  cafe,  sat  Oscar,  Kerker, 
Charles  Alfred  Byrne,  dramatic  critic  and  libret 
tist;  Henry  Neagle,  then  dramatic  editor  of  the 
New  York  Recorder  —  since  defunct  —  and  the 
present  writer.  Taunted  by  some  one,  Oscar 
became  excited  and  offered  to  compose  an  opera, 
words  and  music,  within  forty-eight  hours. 
Gus  booked  the  bet  —  the  amount  of  which  I've 
forgotten.  Rooms  were  engaged  in  the  Gilsey, 
an  upright  piano  installed,  and,  cut  off  from  the 
world,  Hammerstein  began  tapping  out  tunes 
-  he  was  a  one-fingered  virtuoso  —  scribbling 
verse,  and  altogether  making  himself  extremely 
busy.  I  forgot  to  say  that  Gus  Kerker  had 
agreed  to  orchestrate  the  masterpiece. 

Then  we  had  lots  of  fun.  Louis  Harrison 
engaged  a  relay  of  hand-organs  to  play  under 
the  composer's  windows,  but  Oscar  never  winced. 
The  hotel  authorities  had  to  telephone  the  police 
in  order  to  get  rid  of  a  string  of  Italian  piano- 
organists  passionately  grinding  out  popular  mel 
odies  on  Twenty-ninth  Street.  Plates  of  sinis 
ter  ham  sandwiches  were  sent  to  his  room,  ac 
companied  by  a  brigade  of  cocktails.  And  the 
tray  was  always  returned  empty,  with  the  com 
poser's  thanks.  I've  forgotten  the  other  pranks 
we  played,  and  all  to  no  purpose.  Complaints 
were  made  at  the  hotel  office  that  a  wild  man 
was  howling  and  thumping  the  keyboard;  again, 
uselessly,  for,  barricaded,  the  composer  refused 
to  give  up  the  fort.  Exhausted,  but  smiling, 
Oscar  at  the  end  of  the  allotted  time  invited  the 
266 


"OSCAR"  AND  DVORAK 

jury  on  awards  to  listen  to  his  music.  It  proved 
a  tuneful  hodge-podge,  also  proved  the  com 
poser's  retentive  memory.  Every  operetta  com 
poser  was  represented.  The  book  was  a  joy. 
It  would  have  pleased  little  Daisy  Ashford. 
(Why  doesn't  some  humor-loving  musician  set 
The  Visiters  to  music?)  Kerker  threw  up  the 
sponge.  He  had  to  pay  the  bet.  The  curious 
side  of  the  affair  is  that  the  operetta  was  actually 
produced  at  the  New  York  Theatre  a  few  months 
later,  reinforced  by  extra  numbers,  considerably 
"edited,"  and  it  met  with  some  success.  To  be 
sure,  the  composer  was  also  the  owner  and  man 
ager  of  the  three  theatres  clustered  under  one 
roof.  That  first  night  of  The  Kohinoor  was  not 
only  notorious,  it  was  side-splitting.  The  au 
dience,  of  the  true  Tenderloin  variety,  laughed 
themselves  blue  in  the  face.  I  can  only  recall 
that  the  opening  chorus  consumed  a  third  of 
the  first  act.  Oscar  knew  the  art  of  camouflage 
years  before  the  word  was  imported.  Two  comic- 
stage  Jews  alternately  sang,  "Good  morning, 
Mr.  Morgenstern;  good  morning,  Mr.  Isaac- 
stein,"  while  the  orchestra  shifted  the  harmonies 
to  avoid  monotony.  I  fancy  that  was  a  device 
of  Kerker 's.  Oscar  "composed"  a  second  oper 
etta,  but  it  never  achieved  the  popularity  of 
The  Kohinoor. 

During  a  certain  period  the  Hammerstein  hat 

was  without  duplicate,  except  that  worn  by 

William  M.  Chase,  the  painter.     Nevertheless, 

the  Hammerstein  hat  was  unique,  not  alone  for 

267 


VARIATIONS 

the  gray  matter  it  covered,  but  because  of  its 
atmospheric  quality.  It  was  a  temperamental 
barometer.  When  the  glass  had  set  fair  the 
tilt  of  the  hat  was  unmistakable.  If  storm 
clouds  had  gathered  on  the  vocal  horizon  the 
hat  registered  the  mood  and  righted  itself  like 
a  buoy  in  agitated  waters.  Its  brim  settled 
over  the  eyes  of  its  owner;  his  people  flurried 
into  anonymous  corners.  Or  else  the  hat  was 
pushed  off  his  forehead:  unbuttoned  then  his 
soul.  You  might  dare  to  approach  and  beg  for 
seats.  A  weather  gauge  was  Oscar's  hat.  Ask 
his  one-time  famulus,  W.  J.  Guard.  He  knew. 
Or  Mary  Garden.  Oscar  had  hurled  his  hat 
at  her  head  in  the  long  ago.  What  a  brim  it 
had,  this  hat.  Oh!  the  breadth  and  flatness 
thereof.  How  glossy  its  nap,  in  height  how  im 
posing.  To  have  described  Hammers tein  with 
out  his  hat  would  have  been  as  disastrous  as  to 
give  the  Ring  without  Wotan.  Shorn  of  it  the 
owner  would  have  been  like  Alberich  sans  Tarn- 
helm.  As  an  Irishman  would  have  said:  His 
hat  was  his  heel  of  Achilles.  Oscar  sported  it 
while  sleeping.  Inside  was  stencilled  the  wisdom 
of  Candide:  "II  faut  cultiver  notre  Jardin." 
(Mary,  of  course.)  Many  painters  yearned  to 
portray  that  hat  in  Oscar's  dome  of  action. 
The  impressionists  would  have  painted  it  in 
complementary  tones;  the  late  William  M.  Chase 
would  have  transformed  it  into  a  shiny  still-life. 
George  Luks  would  have  made  it  a  jest  for 
Hades;  Arthur  B.  Davies  would  have  changed 
268 


"OSCAR"  AND  DVORAK 

it  into  a  symbol  —  the  old  Hebraic  chant,  Kol 
Nidre,  might  have  been  heard  echoing  around 
its  curved  surfaces,  as  echoes  the  Banshee  on  a 
funereal  night  in  dear  old  Tipperary.  It  was  a 
hat  cosmopolitan,  alert,  joyous,  both  reticent 
and  expensive.  It  caused  a  lot  of  people  sleep 
less  nights,  did  this  sawed-off  stovepipe  with  its 
operatic  airs.  Why  did  Oscar  Hammers tein 
wear  it?  For  the  same  reason  that  a  miller 
wears  his  hat,  and  not  for  tribal  or  political 
reasons.  Requiescat  in  Oscarino !  Pardon  my 
Latin. 

But  Oscar  musical?  Oscar  a  man  of  fine  mu 
sical  tastes  or  intelligence?  Basta!  He  had 
the  native  wit  to  select  as  General  for  his  oper 
atic  army  a  skilled  conductor  and  a  musician  of 
judgment  and  vision.  That  is  the  reason  New 
York  had  such  a  wide  and  novel  repertory  of 
fered  to  it  at  the  Manhattan  Opera  House. 
When  Signor  Cleofonte  Campanini  left  Hammer- 
stein  his  musical  fortunes  began  to  wane.  But 
as  a  dynamic  driving  force  I  cannot  name  his 
equal,  except  Jack  Haverly,  or  Barnum. 

When  I  was  on  the  professional  staff  of  the 
National  Conservatory  —  the  only  musical  in 
stitution  in  this  country  that  deserved  the  ap 
pellation —  I  was  intrusted  by  the  President, 
Jeannette  M.  Thurber,  with  the  care  on  his 
arrival  of  Dr.  Antonin  Dvorak,  Bohemian  com 
poser  and  musical  director  of  the  Conservatory. 
For  the  "man  in  the  street"  his  name  means  his 
269 


VARIATIONS 

Humoresque  as  played  by  the  inimitable  Fritz 
Kreisler,  or  wheezed  out  by  some  unmusical 
instrument  of  torture;  canned  music;  in  the  con 
secrated  phrase  of  Arthur  Whiting,  "  musical 
waxworks."  But  Dvorak  also  composed  The 
New  World  symphony,  and  other  trifles;  these, 
however,  do  not  trouble  or  soothe  the  digestion 
of  table  d'hotes.  With  "Old  Borax,"  as  Parker 
the  composer  affectionately  called  Dvorak,  in 
tow  I  assured  Mrs.  Thurber  that  he  would  be 
safe  in  my  hands,  and  then  I  proceeded  to  show 
him  certain  sections  of  our  old  town,  chiefly  the 
near  east  side.  As  he  was  a  fervent  Roman 
Catholic  I  found  a  Bohemian  church  for  him; 
he  invariably  began  his  day  by  attending  the 
first  mass.  Jauntily  I  invited  him  to  taste  the 
treacherous  national  drink  called  whisky  cock 
tail.  He  nodded  with  that  head  which  looked 
like  an  angry  bulldog  bearded.  At  first  he 
scared  me  with  his  fierce  Slavonic  eyes,  yet  he 
was  as  mild-mannered  a  musical  pirate  as  ever 
scuttled  a  pupil's  counterpoint.  I  always 
thought  of  him  as  a  boned-pirate.  But  I  made 
a  mistake  in  believing  that  American  strong 
waters  would  upset  his  nerves.  We  began  our 
rounds  at  Goerwitz's,  then,  as  now,  Scheffel 
Hall,  which  stood  across  the  street  from  the 
National  Conservatory.  Later  we  went  down 
to  Gus  Liichow's;  for  a  musician  not  to  be  seen 
at  Liichow's  argued  that  he  was  unknown  in 
the  social  world  of  tone.  We  traversed  the 
great  thirst  belt  of  the  neighborhood.  At  each 
270 


"OSCAR"  AND  DVORAK 

stopping-place  Doc  Borax  absorbed  a  cocktail 
or  two.  He  seemed  to  take  to  them  as  a  pro 
hibitionist  takes  to  personal  abuse. 

Now,  alcohol  I  abhor.  Therefore  I  stuck  to 
my  usual  three-voiced  invention  of  hops,  malt, 
and  water.  We  conversed  in  German,  for  he 
knew  no  English,  and  I  rejoiced  at  meeting  a 
man  whose  Teutonic  accent,  above  all  whose 
grammar,  was  worse  than  mine.  Yet  we  got 
along  swimmingly  —  an  appropriate  enough 
image,  as  the  thirst-weather  was  wet,  though 
not  squally.  He  told  me  of  his  admiration  for 
Brahms  and  of  that  composer's  admiration  for 
Dvorak.  I  agreed  with  Brahms.  After  he  had 
put  away  about  nineteen  cocktails,  maybe  more, 
I  said,  rather  thickly:  "Master,  don't  you  think 
it's  time  we  ate  something?"  He  gazed  at  me 
through  those  jungle  whiskers,  which  met  his 
tumbled  hair  half  way.  He  grunted:  "Eat!  I 
no  eat.  We  go  to  Houston  Street.  You  go, 
hein!  We  drink  the  slivavitch.  It  makes 
warm  after  beer."  I  didn't  go  that  evening  to 
the  East  Houston  Street  cafe  with  Dr.  Antonin 
Dvorak.  I  never  went  there  with  him,  for  I 
not  only  feared  the  slivavitch,  but  also  that 
deadly  Humoresque  played  by  a  fake  gypsy 
fiddler,  attired  in  a  red  coat  and  wearing  an  in 
effable  grin.  Such  a  man  as  Old  Borax  was  as 
dangerous  to  a  moderate  drinker  as  a  false 
beacon  to  a  shipwrecked  sailor.  His  head  was 
like  iron.  He  could  drink  as  much  spirits  as  I 
could  beer,  and  never  turn  a  hair.  I  tell  this 
271 


VARIATIONS 

anecdote,  not  for  a  moral  purpose,  but  as  one 
of  the  rapidly  vanishing  specimens  of  rum-lore, 
soon  to  become  legendary.  Next  year  the  na 
tion  will  be  put  in  cotton-wool  and  its  feeble 
will  coddled  by  noble  precepts  and  winning 
words  from  mouths  smoking  with  fiery  wisdom. 
And  yet  —  it  was  a  better  time  when  Hammer- 
stein  smoked  or  Dvorak  drank  than  the  dusty 
prospect  ahead  for  baffled  thirsts. 


272 


ENRICO  CARUSO 

ENTUCO  CARUSO  is  dead.  The  enormous  dis 
placement  caused  by  this  lamentable  happening 
is  not  alone  confined  to  the  artistic  sphere  but 
literally  to  the  entire  civilized  world.  We  doubt 
if  there  are  more  than  a  half  dozen  public  men 
on  the  globe  to-day  whose  demise  would  so  stir 
the  universal  imagination  as  has  the  passing  of 
the  incomparable  tenor,  for  it  must  not  be  for 
gotten  that  the  voice  of  Caruso  has  been  heard, 
still  is,  and  always  will  be  listened  to,  from  the 
equator  to  both  poles,  thanks  to  his  vocal  records, 
meagre,  mechanical  things,  if  you  will,  yet  at 
least  the  simulacrum  of  his  golden  organ.  It  is 
a  curious  commentary  on  Theophile  Gautiers 
famous  poetic  dictum  that  empires  perish  but 
art  endures;  that  many  of  the  great  names  con 
temporary  with  Caruso's  will  surely  be  forgotten, 
but  the  memory  of  his  achievements  not.  Man 
kind  always  recalls  with  satisfaction  the  artists 
who  have  given  pleasure  to  the  senses.  Kings 
are  embalmed  in  deathless  verse  or  live  on  the 
canvas  of  poet  and  painter.  Yet  where  to-day 
are  the  monarchs  who  patronized  Shakespeare, 
or  Velasquez,  or  Moliere?  Their  very  titles 
would  be  forgotten  were  it  not  for  art. 

But  actor  and  singer  have  not  the  luck  of 
creative  artists;  they  do  but  interpret,  there- 

273 


VARIATIONS 

fore,  with  their  disappearance  from  the  painted 
scene,  for  the  majority  there  is  naught  but  ob 
livion.  The  happy  few  who  seem  as  of  yesterday 
are,  in  the  musical  world:  Patti,  Rubinstein, 
Liszt,  Rubini,  Chopin  —  as  pianist  —  Paganini, 
Malibran,  and  Lilli  Lehmann.  Great  exemplars. 
To  this  brief  list  is  now  added  Caruso.  And  he 
has  one  tremendous  advantage  over  his  cele 
brated  predecessors  —  his  voice  is  a  living  reality, 
after  a  fashion.  That  same  voice  has  given 
profound  satisfaction  in  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  homes  scattered  over  the  world;  that  voice 
cheered  the  boys  in  the  trenches  during  the 
World  War.  After  all,  it  is  a  sort  of  immor 
tality,  this  record,  about  as  vital  as  we  may  hope 
for  in  a  universe  of  changeless  change. 

Enrico  Caruso  is  dead.  There  have  been  and 
will  be  other  tenors,  yet  for  this  generation  his 
memory  is  something  sacred  and  apart.  It  is 
doubtful  if  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  will 
again  echo  such  golden  music  as  made  by  his 
throat  —  that  is,  doubtful  in  our  time.  When 
he  first  came  here,  not  two  decades  ago,  there 
was  a  rich  fruitiness  to  his  tones  that  evoked 
such  disparate  images  as  the  sound  of  a  French 
horn  and  a  golden  autumnal  sunset.  Always 
the  word  golden  comes  to  the  lips.  Golden, 
with  a  thrilling  human  fibre.  Not  the  finished 
vocal  artist  that  he  developed  into,  nevertheless 
there  was  something  indescribably  fresh,  lumi 
nous  and  youthful  in  the  singing  of  the  early 
Caruso.  I  had  heard  him  in  London  before  he 
274 


ENRICO   CARUSO 

sang  here,  which,  alas !  was  to  be  his  last  home. 
Veteran  as  I  was  I  could  hardly  trust  my  ears 
when  he  poured  forth  a  golden  stream  of  music, 
and  with  effortless  art.  It  needed  no  critical 
clairvoyancy  to  predict  that  a  star  of  the  first 
magnitude  had  arisen  in  the  firmament  of  art. 
That  was  in  1902,  and  since  then  this  star  grew 
in  lustre  and  beauty  till  the  day  of  his  death. 
Caruso  had  not  even  then  achieved  his  grand 
artistic  climax.  He  was  ever  a  prodigious 
student. 

There  will  not  be  any  critical  dispute  as  to 
Caruso's  place  in  the  history  of  his  art.  Even 
in  the  brief  span  of  life  accorded  the  present 
writer  Caruso  looms  formidably.  Originally  a 
lyric,  he  ended  as  a  heroic  tenor.  His  vocal 
range  was  extraordinary.  In  his  repertory  he 
demonstrated  his  catholicity.  From  Meyer 
beer's  Les  Huguenots  to  Flotow's  Marta,  from 
Rigoletto  to  Pagliacci,  there  are  few  lyric  works 
that  he  missed.  La  Forza  del  Destino  was  re 
vived  for  him  by  Mr.  Gatti-Casazza,  and  he 
could  squander  his  extraordinary  art  on  such  a 
trifle  as  Mascagni's  Lodoletta.  But  to  all  his 
undertakings  he  brought  a  refreshing  sincerity 
and  tonal  beauty.  It  is  not  to  be  denied  that 
he  was  happier  in  Italian  than  French  music; 
his  Rhadames  outshone  his  Faust.  Neverthe 
less,  he  overcame  the  seemingly  insuperable 
difficulties  of  a  foreign  style  and  diction,  and  his 
John  of  Leyden  in  Le  Prophete  and  Eleazer  in 
La  Juive  rank  among  his  greatest  achievements, 

275 


VARIATIONS 

not  to  mention  his  Samson.  There  was  the 
note  of  the  grand  manner  in  the  assumption  of 
John  and  incomparable  pathos  in  the  delineation 
of  Halevy's  persecuted  and  vengeful  old  Hebrew. 
As  an  actor  he  grew  amazingly  the  last  decade 
of  his  artistic  career.  Compare  his  light- 
hearted,  frivolous  Duke  in  Rigoletto  with  the 
venerable  Jew  in  La  Juive.  Then  we  realize 
how  far  intense  study  intelligently  directed  may 
carry  a  singer.  It  has  often  been  a  cause  of 
critical  wonderment  why  Caruso  never  sang  the 
music  of  Richard  Wagner.  What  a  Lohengrin 
he  would  have  been,  what  a  Parsifal,  yes,  even 
a  Tristan !  He  knew  every  note  of  these  roles. 
Once  for  my  delectation  he  hummed  the  plain 
tive  measures  of  the  dying  Tristan.  Tears 
came  to  my  eyes,  so  penetratingly  sweet  was 
his  tone,  so  pathetic  his  phrasing. 

I  have  heard  tenors  from  Brignoli,  so  fat  that 
he  waddled,  to  the  Spaniard  Gayarre;  from  Italo 
Campanini  to  Masini,  Nicolini  and  the  sten 
torian  Tamagno;  no  one  of  these  boasted  the 
luscious  voice  of  Caruso.  Some  have  out 
pointed  him  in  finesse,  Bonci;  Tamagno  out- 
roared  him;  Jean  de  Reszke  had  more  personal 
charm  and  artistic  subtlety;  there  have  been 
fierier  Turridus  and  more  sympathetic  Don 
Joses,  but  Caruso's  natural  voice  was  paved 
with  lyric  magic,  it  was  positively  torrential  in 
its  golden  mellowness.  When  in  his  prime,  full 
of  verve  and  unaffected  gaiety  —  think  of 
L'Elisir  d'Amore  and  Marta  —  he  was  unap- 
276 


ENRICO   CARUSO 

proachable.  There  were  many  of  us  who  would 
rather  have  been  Caruso  than  ruler  of  these 
United  States. 

The  social  man  in  him  was  irresistible.  Gen 
erous,  overflowing  with  the  joy  of  life,  his  sense 
of  humor  found  one  outlet  in  his  caricatures  — 
his  pencil  was  clever  as  well  as  witty  —  and  in 
the  company  of  his  friends.  He  was  a  good 
friend.  No  need  here  to  speak  of  his  ready  re 
sponse  to  those  in  trouble.  He  was  exploited, 
of  course,  yet  his  belief  in  humanity  was  never 
shaken.  An  Italian  patriot,  he  was  also  a  lover 
of  his  adopted  land.  He  was  always  a  boy. 
He  really  never  grew  up.  The  eternal  boy  in 
him,  mischievous,  mirthful,  coupled  with  his  gift 
of  mimicry,  endeared  him  to  every  one.  He 
fairly  bubbled  with  kindly  humor,  and  not  the 
least  among  his  many  admirable  traits  was  his 
conscientious  attitude  toward  his  audiences. 
Not  to  disappoint  an  expectant  audience  often 
cost  him  much  personal  suffering.  He  has  sung 
when  he  should  have  been  in  bed  with  doctors 
and  nurses.  In  Brooklyn  he  persisted  in  sing 
ing  until  a  ruptured  vein  filled  his  throat  with 
blood.  The  same  desire,  and  not  a  craving  for 
more  fame  or  money,  impelled  him  to  make 
long  and  fatiguing  trips  in  order  that  remote 
audiences  might  enjoy  his  matchless  voice. 

Like  the  majority  of  his  countrymen,  he  was 
frugal  in  his  habits,  eating  little  and  drinking 
less.    He  abused  the  use  of  tobacco,  and  be 
cause  of  his  nervousness  cigarettes  were  a  seda- 
277 


VARIATIONS 

live.  However,  they  did  not  fatally  hurt  his 
throat  as  has  been  asserted.  And  considering 
his  exalted  position  and  his  innumerable  temp 
tations,  Caruso  was  hardly  a  rake.  Scandal 
clustered  about  his  name.  Cruel  persecution 
pursued  him,  but  at  the  close  of  his  life  he  was 
happily  married  and  the  father  of  a  passionately 
loved  daughter.  A  democratic  man,  he  at  no 
time  bore  himself  with  the  arrogant  airs  of  the 
traditional  tenor.  Beloved  by  his  associates, 
especially  beloved  by  the  chorus,  he  was  acces 
sible  to  all  and  sundry.  Truly  a  refreshing  con 
trast  to  the  proverbially  haughty  signore  with  a 
high  C  in  his  chest. 

Born  of  humble  parentage,  Caruso  suffered  a 
severe  apprenticeship  to  his  art.  In  Naples  we 
have  met  people  who  remember  him  singing  in 
the  streets,  around  various  cafes,  in  company 
with  a  strummer  on  the  guitar.  Pasquale 
Amato,  a  fellow-townsman  as  well  as  a  colleague 
at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  has  told  me 
of  the  far-away  days  when  Enrico  sang  in  two 
operas  every  Sunday  at  the  Teatro  Mercadante, 
at  Naples,  and  of  the  summers  at  Salerno  when, 
during  entr'actes  he  would  drop  a  string  from 
his  dressing-room  window  and  draw  up  a  fond 
prize  —  sardine  and  cream  cheese  sandwiches. 
He  was  thin  then  and  his  appetite  was  that  of 
a  growing  youth.  The  local  manager  knew  that 
the  only  way  to  be  sure  of  him  for  the  two 
Sunday  performances  was  to  lock  him  in  the 
theatre  till  the  last  curtain  had  been  rung  down. 
278 


ENRICO  CARUSO 

He  confessed  to  me  that  once  as  a  boy  his 
mother  had  chastised  him  not  gently  because 
he  let  the  household  bread  bake  till  it  burned. 
But  enough.  Books  might  be  crowded  with 
interesting  stories  of  the  great  man.  A  good 
comrade,  a  loving  husband  and  father,  the  giant 
tenor  of  his  generation,  Enrico  Caruso  is  dead. 
But  to  his  admirers  he  remains  the  dearest 
memory  hi  this  drab,  prosaic  age. 


279 


